


Palest Ink

by feverpitchfiasco



Series: Palest Ink!Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Branding, Caning, Chains, Coping, Developing Relationship, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Johnlock, Flashbacks, Fluff, Guilt, Hand Jobs, Handcuffs, Hurt/Comfort, John has the patience of a saint, M/M, Moriarty - Freeform, Moriarty's Web, Oral Sex, Post-Reichenbach, Scars, Torture, We've struck smut, eventual Mystrade, possibly unhealthy coping mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:04:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feverpitchfiasco/pseuds/feverpitchfiasco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people believe that John spent Sherlock's three year hiatus quietly mourning. Those closest to him know that something entirely different happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have big plans for this story. Let's hope it comes to fruition!
> 
> Bumped up to an explicit rating when Ch. 12 was posted on 11/23/13

The question slipped out one day. Sherlock, sat at the kitchen table with his microscope, had been listening to John pretend to read the paper for almost 36 minutes and the question just slipped out.

 

“I know your nightmares are about Afghanistan, but what specifically do you dream of during them?” Sherlock looked up from his microscope as John calmly put the paper down and moved to stand before him.

 

“Sherlock, I’m going to say this one time and one time only. So please listen. I know you’re curious about everything, and need to know everything. I get that. However. If my friendship means anything to you. If you respect me even the smallest bit. You will in turn understand that that is not a question I can answer, and not a question that you will ever ask me again. Okay?” And with that, John turned on his heel and made his way up the stairs to his room.

 

Sitting on the edge of his bed, John slumped forward and held his head in his hands. Some nights he’d wake up and not remember the nightmare, but he could still tell you what had happened. He always dreamt of the same things these days. Sun, sand, and blood. Bullets tore through the air, ripped apart everyone and everything he held dear and blood spilled. The sun baked everything into a monstrous finality, and a great monolith would rise from the wreckage. Sherlock always stood atop these structures. He’d stare down at John silently. Even though he seemed to be miles up in the air, John could always see his face with extreme clarity. He always showed no emotion. Nothing. Just a blank mask, staring at John before leaping into an elegant swan dive. The damned scarf and coat fluttering beautifully behind him until he landed with a small puff of sand. When John would clamber his way over dunes and through scrub brush to where Sherlock landed, he was always met with the same sight. A perfect replica of the sidewalk along St. Bart’s. A few squares of sidewalk with a broken and bloody Sherlock laying there. Except where Sherlock had been so very still in real life, in the dream he would lift his head and look at John with disdain and wrong angles and gurgle through the blood. Always said the same thing.

 

“Your fault.”

 

He would sometimes open his mouth again to say something else, but that’s usually the point when John woke up screaming.

 

As he sat there, he nudged the bottom drawer of his bedside table open. A few weeks after Sherlock had fallen, Harry had popped round for a visit.

 

~~~~~

 

_“Before you start, Harry, I am NOT in the mood for any sort of ‘I told you so’. So if you’re here to tell me you’re glad he’s gone… You can just leave, ok?” John had stood in the doorway, not even letting her say hello before starting in. He just stared at her, his red-rimmed eyes so wide her heart broke and she pulled him into a tight hug._

 

_“Oh, Johnny. I’m so sorry. Look, I know I never got on with him, but you seemed happy around him. After you came back from Afghanistan, you seemed so dead. I never saw you more alive as when you were with him. Maybe that’s why I was so opposed to you guys doing the crime thing together. Dead men tell no tales, and all that.” She had released him with a one sided smile and plopped onto the couch, John slowly joining her on the other end._

 

_“Let me get this straight. You only disliked him because you were afraid for me?”_

 

_“Well, he was an arrogant, smarmy son of a bitch too. That really helped. But as abrasive as he was, it was plain to see that he wasn’t a bad person, you know? It was just that you were so happy to run off and chase down criminals with him. I was afraid for you in the army, but I knew that you had a whole group of men and women trained to know how to protect each other. You had armor and helmets and you were a doctor. But here, you have your jumpers and dark alleys and knives and guns and the kind of people you chase down don’t play fair. They’re scared animals, and you corner them. They fight back the only way they know how, and I was even more afraid for you now. I put phones in every room of my house. Made sure my cell was always charged and on me. I didn’t want to miss the call, when.. if it came. Did you know that I got a call from DI Lestrade one day? I guess neither of you guys had been answering your cells, so he called to see if I might know where you were. As soon as he introduced himself, I just started crying and asked how it happened. I’ve made a mess of my life, Johnny. Mom and Dad are gone, and I’m a mess. But you have your shit together. You always have. I guess I just keep trying, in my own fucked up way, to make sure you don’t go down the way I did.” By that point, she was halfway crying, huffing out a humorless puff of laughter as she wiped her eyes. John just looked at her and sighed._

 

_“Harry, I know you love me, and care about me. I know you don’t want to see me hurt. Life doesn’t work that way, though. I’m going to get hurt. Hell, I got shot! I have the scar and a wonky shoulder to prove everyday that life is a gamble. What I did with Sherlock just gave me the best odds at going out with no regrets.”_

 

_“Your life is yours to live as you want, Johnny. I have to let you do that. Either way, I brought you a present. I know it’s fucked up and twisted, but… Take it from an alcoholic. Sometimes a good stiff drink is just the medicine you need during a hard time. So.. Here. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s drinkable. Just squirrel it away for a rainy day, and if nothing else you can cook with it or something.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a bottle of Maker’s Mark. Holding it out to him, he smiled and set it on the coffee table._

 

_“Thanks, Harry. I.. I think I get your reasoning. Anyway, I uh.. I think I’m gonna call it an early night. Tomorrow is my first shift back at the clinic, and I don’t think sleep will be easy.” He scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck and leaned forward to give his sister a hug. She ruffled his hair and left. He spent the next 3 hours staring at the bottle, willing himself not to crawl into it._

~~~~~

 

He didn’t need the bottle now, not for the reasons Harry had meant it for anyway. Sherlock was back, healthy and (for him) happy. He had withheld drinking much of anything while Sherlock was gone. That was a path he couldn’t bring himself back from. But hell, he had tomorrow off, no cases were likely to pop up, and Sherlock had gotten him thinking about everything he dreamt of. Every bad memory from Afghanistan, the three years Sherlock was gone, everything. Getting nice and smashed in the safety of his bedroom seemed like a really good idea. His head was filling up with memories and he needed to silence them. Maybe he’d make his shrink happy and write about it.

 

He’d definitely need some drinks for that. And so John found himself at his desk, bottle by his side and laptop in front of him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A foolish Lestrade only adds fuel to the flames. Silly man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The more I write on this, the more ideas I get. I don't think this is going to end up as simple as I initially thought!

Sherlock took easy notice when John’s behavior changed. Being a man of routine and habit, any deviation stood out like a neon sign. John had begun writing. Always scratching away in his steady soldier’s hand (and not the swirly scrawl of a doctor, Sherlock noted). Sherlock’s first theory of more blog entries was soon disproved as no new entries cropped up, and he wouldn’t hand write them anyway. His second theory of handwritten notes was thrown out due to John not being much of a note kind of guy, on top of Sherlock not finding any hidden around the flat. That left the idea that he was writing for himself. Was he trying to write a book? Whenever he came anywhere near John when he was writing, he’d shut the notebook and wait for Sherlock to depart. 

This meant Sherlock spent many evenings on the couch just staring as John wrote. If he couldn’t see what was being written, he could at least see what John looked like as he wrote it. He could use that information to deduce what was going on. It was frustrating, though. John seemed to be carefully schooling his face when he wrote. Occasionally something would flicker through his eyes, or he’d furrow his brow before blinking fractionally too long at a time. This was always followed by a deep careful breath and then he’d continue as it nothing had happened.

“You know, you’re not going to get this before I’m ready.” Despite the lighthearted tone, there was something in John’s face that made Sherlock hesitate.

“I just want to know what you’re writing. Is it about me? Is it about you? Is it about tea? I can’t deduce it, and I need to know!” 

“It mentions you, it’s most definitely about me, and there is no tea. My therapist always told me to write things down. Said it’d help me. I figured I’d give it a try and see if it does. If nothing else, it’s helps keep my handwriting legible.” John turned back without another word. 

“Ah. So you’re trying to lessen your nightmares and post traumatic stress disorder by writing down… what exactly?” Sherlock curled up on the couch, one observation away from steepling his fingers beneath his chin. John paused and took a deep breath before answering. 

“Yes. You’re so curious to know, yes. That is exactly what I’m doing. I’m tired of my nightmares, Sherlock. You hear me screaming at night. Imagine what it’s like being in my head? Besides, writing this all out is a lot more therapeutic than I first thought it’d be. Even if you never see it, even if I were to toss it in the fire right now and never think about it again; it IS kind of helping to just get it out.” 

“Why can’t you just tell me then? You have it out there in the world, in some form. What does it matter if I then see it?” Sherlock swung his feet to the floor, throwing himself into an upright position on the couch. His robe, ever the accomplice in his drama, fluttered with the movement.

“Don’t push this, Sherlock. You will get the whole story. This is about so much more than just my nightmares, and I just don’t think you’re ready to hear it yet.” Pinching the bridge of his nose, John put his notebook down.

“Fine. I’ll just make Lestrade tell me!” Sherlock swept up off the couch and into his room just long enough to put on one of his usual suits. John looked up as he threw the front door open.

“He won’t tell you. And if he does, he’ll have me to answer to. I’m asking you as your friend, Sherlock. Just let this be!”

Sherlock barely heard him, as he was halfway down the stairs and out the door. John watched from the window as Sherlock hailed a cab and climbed in. Pulling out his phone, he sent a text to Greg. 

>>Sherlock’s on his way over. He’s going to ask about the hiatus. Tell him nothing. JW

>>Shit. Ok, I’ll deflect him as much as I can. No promises, though. I still have a hard time with it and I wasn’t even there. GL

~~~

The door to Lestrade’s office flew open with a bang. He waved an impatient hand as he finished his paperwork. 

“Not telling you a thing, Sherlock. Go home.” 

“Tell me. Tell me what happened when I was away. I need to know. I deserve to know!” Sherlock flopped down into one of the chairs at Lestrade’s desk. 

“You ‘deserve’ to know? You deserved the fractured jaw he gave you when you turned back up. You don’t deserve to know what happened until John is good and ready to tell you. I don’t even have the whole story.”

“Damnit, Greg! I’m not asking out of mere curiosity. I know I put John through a lot with my absense. I had my reasons, of which I’ve told you time and again. Surely I don’t need to go over it again. Especially the part where I saved your life too by faking my death to take out Moriarty’s web?” Sherlock sat back in his chair, tilting his head back in defiance. Lestrade sighed, the line of his mouth tightening into nonexistence. 

“Look, Sherlock, I’m grateful to you for that. It’s a very big deal. One I hope I get to thank you for for many years to come. But you have got to listen to me when I tell you that this is not my story to tell. When John is ready for you to hear it, I will very willingly tell you everything I know. Not a second sooner. He WILL tell you. You know that right? You just have to trust him on this and be patient.” Lestrade looked him square in the eye as he all but whispered. Sherlock sat back in slight surprise at Lestrade’s genuine tone of regret and… sadness? Deeper than sadness, but Sherlock was never very good at emotions. John handled the emotions. So Sherlock stood to leave, and Lestrade rose from his desk as well. 

“Don’t push this, Sherlock; It’s Pandora’s Box. Give him as much time as he needs.” 

“Come now, Lestrade. Let’s not be overly dramatic.” Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes, but was silenced by the DI pushing himself into his space. 

“I’m not being dramatic, Sherlock. I’m telling you the truth. You think John spent those three years just mourning and learning how to live without you? He should have been so lucky. I meant it when I said that this story is Pandora’s Box. It’s a lot of dark and ugly and I’m still not entirely convinced there was a happy ending.” 

“I came back, didn’t I? Besides, Pandora’s Box also contained hope.” Sherlock turned back to the door again, hesitating only a half-second at Lestrade’s humorless puff of laughter and parting words.

“Sometimes, Sherlock? Sometimes I think you coming back was the worst thing that could have ever happened to John Watson.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is fiercely in his brother's court, and will always fight for what he feels Sherlock needs.

Lestrade’s cryptic words rang in Sherlock’s ears as he stepped into the blustery streets. He stopped at a sleek black car waiting for him, and snarled as Anthea stepped out. She stood in silence, tapping away on her phone, and rolled her head in the direction of the open door.

“You can tell my brother to piss off! Whatever he wants me to do; I won’t do it. Whatever he wants to tell me; I won’t listen. So you can get right back in the car and run on home.” Sherlock swept his coat about him and tightened his scarf against the cold, but Anthea merely sighed and looked up at him.

“You know, your brother sends me on these milk runs all the time. ‘Retrieve Sherlock’. ‘Go get Dr. Watson’. ‘I need Sherlock and Watson. Now’. You guys always act like entitled, spoiled little brats. I get that your brother isn’t the easiest man to be around. Trust me. I know. I’ve worked for him for how long now? If your little friend weren’t such a pain in the ass as well, I’d almost feel sorry for him, being strapped to one of the Holmes brothers the way he is. But he’s just as bad as you! Now, we both know how this is going to end. You’ll huff and you’ll puff, and then you’ll get in the car. You WILL get in the car. Right. Now. You will sit, and you will be silent. You will save your temper tantrum for your brother. Because you know what? In case you haven’t noticed, it’s bloody freezing outside and I have much better and more important things to be doing than going on the school run for my boss’ snot nosed little brother. Now GET IN THE GODDAMN CAR, SHERLOCK!” She’d surprised him by not only speaking more than a few words, but by letting loose and shouting at him. 

The resulting car ride was more than a little tense.

~~~~~

“She yelled at me, Mycroft. She yelled at me with words. Why is your little minion yelling at me?” Sherlock pointed towards Anthea as he pouted at Mycroft. 

“Well, Sherlock, you aren’t exactly a warm ray of sunshine on a cold winter’s day, now are you?” Mycroft’s face pinched, his mouth tightening into a straighter line than usual. He needed to cut Sherlock off at the pass on this John issue. This was a band-aid; the faster it got ripped off the better. 

“Why did you collect me, anyway? I told your little dog here; I won’t do whatever it is you want me to.” 

“It’s about John, and his life during your… I believe he’s taken to calling it your ‘hiatus’.” Mycroft barely managed to hold back his smirk as Sherlock stood ramrod straight and stared him in the eye. His brother had such easy buttons to push. 

“What do you know about John?” 

“I know a great deal, but we both know I will not be the one to tell you. For once, Detective Inspector Lestrade is correct; this is John’s story to tell you. I am merely confirming your suspicions that something did indeed happen to him in your absence.” Mycroft remained seated at his desk as Sherlock paced back and forth. 

“But it doesn’t make SENSE. Why would he hide anything from me? I’ve offered to tell him everything I did to bring down Moriarty’s web. He’s usually so quick to compliment me, but he’ll barely listen to a word I say on the subject.” Sherlock kept pacing, making a short circuit from the bookcase on the far wall to the globe by the door. Back and forth, back and forth, hands gesturing wildly as he spoke. 

“It wouldn’t do any good for me to request that you calm down, would it? Listen, Sherlock, I know you are quite eager to have the good doctor sing your praises once again. In this particular situation, however, I do not quite think you would want his compliments.” Mycroft poured two tumblers of bourbon and slid one a few inches closer to the far edge of his desk before taking a delicate sip himself. 

“Of course I want his compliments. I’m brilliant. Mind like a planet, and all that. So why won’t he tell me how brilliant I am? What doesn’t he want me to know? I know he was mourning when I was gone, but I kept eyes on him. My homeless network told me he just doddered around the flat and drank too much tea.” Sherlock took the glass and knocked it back, giving his brother’s look of contempt a smug smile. 

“You both treated them well. Of course they’d respect you and wish to spare your feelings.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Sherlock white knuckled the empty glass, not sure he wanted the answer.

“It means, Sherlock, that they lied to you. Dr. Watson did spend some of his time sitting in your flat and drinking tea, but it was a decidedly small portion.”

“Tell me SOMETHING, Mycroft! More than that. You owe me that much, and you know it.” 

“I owe you nothing, but I will leave you with a riddle. Where does the gossamer go when you destroy a spider’s web?”

After Sherlock had huffed, shattered the empty glass against the wall behind his brother’s head, and stormed out, Mycroft picked up the phone.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking.” 

“Detective Inspector. Good evening.” Mycroft smirked as he heard the irritated sigh from the other end of the line.

“Mr. Holmes. To what do I owe the pleasure? Let me guess; it’s about your brother.” 

“And his doctor, to be precise. I fear that Sherlock’s curiosity will only grow in intensity until he finds an answer. Given Dr. Watson’s reluctance to speak with me at any length, it is up to you to convince him to talk with my brother about certain events. We both know how this will end, it would be better to get it done and over with.”

“That’s really up to John, don’t you think? After all, he’s with one with the sc--” Lestrade was cut off by Mycroft clearing his throat in agitation.

“Detective Inspector. Let me make myself clear. Sherlock is not a force you wish to reckon with. Nor am I. Either get my brother his answers, or things will become increasingly less pleasant in your little world. Either John tells Sherlock, or I will. Always a pleasure speaking with you.” With a click, the line went dead and Lestrade gripped his phone until the plastic casing began to protest. This was not how he had planned for his day to go. Not at all. Bad things had happened to John while Sherlock was away, and part of him firmly believed that the consulting detective should never know about them. John was content to leave him in the dark, and Lestrade was firmly on his side. For all his claims of being a sociopath, Sherlock’s emotions were dangerously close to the surface. He was a master at hiding them, but that didn’t change the fact that they were right there. The smallest cut would bleed him out. And he was dancing on the edge of a very dangerous knife. 

~~~

>>Mycroft just called. He thinks we should tell him. -GL

>>Mycroft can piss right off. I’ll tell Sherlock when I’m damned well good and ready. It’s not like I’m trying to figure out how to tell him that his favorite mug broke. You know what this will do to him. Especially because of what he did. -JW

>>He says if you don't tell him, he will. -GL

>>Shit. Ok, I'll think of something. -JW


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is finally going to get some of his answers. He'll find, however, that maybe ignorance is bliss after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lovely janto321 has been helping me a great deal lately, so this is all in thanks to her! She's been a wonderful muse, a fount of ideas and inspiration. She's listened to my ideas, given her own, ixnayed bad ones, given me great ones... So go check her out! You won't regret it.

When Sherlock arrived back at 221B, he noticed a distinct lack of John. His laptop was gone, all mugs were washed and put away, and his weekend bag (as well as a few changes of clothes) were gone. Sitting on the coffee table, however, was a notebook. The notebook. The one that had taken up every moment of John’s spare time for the last few days. Set carefully in the center of the cover was a small tape recorder. John usually used it at the clinic, or if he wanted to record a client. Sherlock sat down carefully on the edge of the couch and stared at the device for a moment before picking it up and hitting play.

“Sherlock. I just want to start this off by saying I’m not leaving forever. I’ll be at Greg’s for a couple days. Just until I sort myself out a bit. You’ve got a new case, Sherlock. And this time it’s me. But I’m not ready for you to hear the whole story. Not yet. Trust me when I say that I need more time. I have no fucking clue how to tell you everything, but you need something from me. So I’m finally letting you read the notebook. It’s not the whole story. A lot of the details are missing. But it’s a start, Sherlock. I think… I think this is the only way I can tell you. 

I guess I decided to leave this recording because I want you to hear it in my voice that I mean it when I say I’m not leaving forever. You can hear that I’m not lying. I really am at Greg’s place, and I really do just need a few days of space. I’m not sure how I feel about you knowing what happened, but the time has come and I can’t keep this from you forever. You’re my best friend, Sherlock, and you deserve to know this. It won’t be easy to hear, and it really won’t be easy to say. I haven’t spoken about it, or really given it much thought to be honest, since it happened. Greg and Mycroft know everything. So if you need to pump anyone for information, you’ll get more from your brother than Greg, but well… I guess we each have our own man in our corners. So… Just promise me one thing, Sherlock. After you read this, please don’t come begging for more. This is a peace offering. A good will gesture of sorts. I need you to not push this. So just… read this and then come find me.”

Sherlock replayed the message over and over for half an hour before he finally got the courage to crack the cover on the notebook. He wasn’t afraid. Well, not entirely. Anxious of what he’d find out, sure, but not afraid. What could have possibly happened to make John just thrust this at him and run? John didn’t run away. From anything. Sherlock felt tiny and inferior in the face of the this… thing. Whatever it was that could get under John’s skin and stretch and grow and fester. He ran his fingertips lightly, reverently across the cover. An unassuming leather bound journal. Something John meant to write and keep, given the quality and the care he took in the handwriting. He took a deep breath and opened to the first page.

~~~~~

I made it home from the war, but to say I survived would be a lie. Bullet aside, most of who I used to be died in those dunes. Coming home was hard. Everything was boring. No one was shooting at me, and I wasn’t woken up in the middle of the night to perform surgery on some kid who’d had his leg blown off. But I found Sherlock. I found a life that gave me what I needed. I didn’t want to like it at first. I wanted to come home from war and settle down into domestic bliss. As much as I wanted that, and part of me still wants it, I’d never be happy. That’d never be enough. I still want parts of it, I guess. I like spending my life with someone. The thought that someone has my back as much as I have theirs. Someone who I can come home to and know that as much pain and bullshit as I’ve seen, there’s someone who is alive and happy. And let’s be honest; as a soldier, doctor, and whatever I am to Sherlock; I’ve seen a lot of pain and ugliness. But on that same note, I found a lot of good too. I saved lives in Afghanistan, and I didn’t stop once I came back. The look on a mother’s face when her child is returned. The sheer joy and relief when we return a priceless family heirloom. Coming down off the adrenaline after a chase and knowing that one more killer is put away. For each murderer we put down, we save countless victims.

In a lot of ways, things aren’t so different here than in Afghanistan. I never know when I’ll get woken up. By man or machine or explosion, uninterrupted sleep is a luxury I simply don’t get to indulge in much. I still sleep like the soldier I used to be; I either fall asleep very quickly or not at all, wake up alert in an instant, and wake up screaming from nightmares several times a week. Sherlock has picked up the habit of waking me up without a word and we never speak of it again. The wet spots on my pillow aren’t always from sweat, and he knows this. But he’s a good bloke, at heart, and doesn’t mention it. 

He did ask about the nightmares the other day, though. I can’t talk about them, despite not being able to forget them or stop thinking about them. But to admit my inability to another person is just not something I can do. It’s bad enough that they’re the elephant in the room and it’s especially disheartening, in some weird way, that the more I write down, the better I feel. I didn’t want my therapist to be right about this. In that same vein, it’s not enough. I could fill libraries and wouldn’t be able to leave these nightmares behind. Every time I close my eyes, I see Sherlock fall or… the other place. I can’t even write it down. How pathetic. As much as Sherlock falling felt like my death, I’d live that moment a million times over before I went back there. I’d watch him fall a million miles a million times before I ever thought about what Roger Sheehan did to me. I bear the marks with little more than indifference anymore, but seeing his depravity was hard. I could have easily gone down that path. I could have been just like him had I not found Sherlock. 

While Sherlock and I have turned London into a battlefield and see every dark corner, we do so only to chase that darkness away. We want there to be light in the world, and we want to spread it. Sheehan only wanted to wallow in his anger and bring everyone down with him. For awhile there, I was terrified that I’d follow him.

I thought about it, I’ll be honest. I could have gotten away with it too. Knowing Lestrade and his men the way I do, and the way Scotland Yard works, I could easily avoid capture. I could taunt them. Play with them. I learned so much from Sherlock, but without him, what was the point in anything? Good or bad, whoever I continued being didn’t matter. It’s not easy, admitting I need him the way I do. But at this point in my life, there’s really no use in denying anything. I’m dangerously co-dependant on him, and that’s okay. For me, anyway, that’s okay. I lost him for three years. And in those three years, I knew more anger and pain than the rest of my life combined. Watching the cancer slowly eat dad until there was nothing left of him on the day he died, watching mom drink herself into oblivion, and Harry following in her footsteps. All of that pales in comparison to those three years. Dramatics play a part in this, I guess. I know I should feel more pain at the loss of my family than a man I’d only known for a relatively short amount of time. Logic never has been my strong suit. 

I need to force myself to write these words. I know that I ultimately have power over my own thoughts. But sometimes, I feel like there’s this one dark corner. Like Sherlock and his mind palace, I have a room in my head full of Roger Sheehan and the torture I underwent. There. I wrote the word. Torture. I can deal with being kidnapped. It wasn’t the first time and it won’t be the last. Kidnapping is old news. The fact that I was tortured in and of itself isn’t even so hard to deal with. I had the training in the military, and yeah it got put to use. But nothing that happened to me back in the desert compares to this. I was a broken man when he got to me, and he knew every shard that could still be broken further. 

But all of this is history. It was two years ago. Roger Sheehan is dead. I killed him with my own two hands. I made sure he was dead. Greg and Mycroft made sure he was dead. Despite what my nightmares tell me, there is absolutely no way for him to hurt me again. But oh, he hurt me. I thought it hurt when I got shot. That was a pinprick compared to what he did to me. That man broke me in ways I didn’t know a human being was capable of breaking. I’m not okay. Even now, years later, I’m not okay. I’m still just as broken as when they found me in that basement. I’ve just gotten used to pretending otherwise. I’d always been a man of routine and order. A simple dance with steps I could do in my sleep. And I have. I still do. Every time I look at Sherlock’s face, it reminds me and it hurts. It’d hurt even more to cut him out of my life though. Someday I’ll find a way to move on.

~~~~~

A while later, Sherlock closed the cover on the journal and stared at it blankly. He had faked his own death and traveled the world to take out Moriarty’s web in a desperate attempt to keep John safe, only to have him get kidnapped and tortured anyway. This man, this Roger Sheehan, sounded familiar. The name rung a bell. Or did it? Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was honestly remembering the name or if he just wanted to have remembered it. 

He looked around the living room, seeing everything that was John. The neat and tidy piles of Sherlock’s own clutter, the kitchen that was usually kept in some semblance of order despite his own experiments and lackadaisical usage. John couldn’t be as bad off as he’d written. When he laughed at Sherlock, it reached his eyes. When he looked at him, he didn’t see haunted eyes. Or was John able to hide those as well as he had the rest of this story? In the recording, John had said to come find him. He whirled out of the flat, down to the street where he hailed a cab, and mumbled Lestrade’s address. He found himself slowly climbing the stairs. He wanted to talk to John, needed to talk to him. But what do you say after learning this much and knowing there’s more still to come? 

Sherlock didn’t do friendship. Not very easily, anyway. John was the one thing he’d gotten the most right in his life, and he’d manage to fuck that up too. He found himself at Lestrade’s door and gave three quiet raps. 

Lestrade answered the door. He let him in with a sigh. “He’s in the back bedroom.” Sherlock nodded and started towards the hallway, but Lestrade grabbed his elbow and stopped him.

“Do you have a plan? What are you gonna say to him, Sherlock?” Lestrade looked worried, concern etched into the lines of his face. He was nursing a beer, but it didn’t look like his first.

“What is there TO say?” With that, Sherlock gingerly pulled his arm free and headed down the hallway. Reaching the door, he knocked and walked inside.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have a conversation in the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting to the good intense parts now! I'm very excited to write these next couple chapters =3 If you like your fics to hurt, then you're gonna wanna stay tuned.
> 
> Also, see the notes at the end.

Sherlock opened the door to John sitting on the edge of the bed. He had his head down, hands in his lap, tips of his feet overlapped. 

He looked like a child. Scared, alone, terrifyingly unsure of what was about to happen. He couldn’t even look at Sherlock as he sat down next to him.

“John. I… There have been very few times in my life where words have failed me. In this moment, they are doing just that. I wish I could say I knew why you decided not to tell me until now. I suspect that once everything comes to light, I’ll know. I can be patient, I can wait for it. You’ve taught me a lot, John. You’ve taught me how to be human. And the fledgling human in me is telling me that I need to tell you just how much you mean to me, and how… How sorry I am that I was not here to protect you. You know that I left, faked my death and left, in order to take down Moriarty’s web. I left to protect you. And I still couldn’t do that. I left, and you got hurt. And for that, I am so very sorry, John.” Sherlock spoke to the wall, barely sparing a glance at John. The only thing keeping the doctor from falling to shards on the floor was the core of a soldier inside him. They sat in silence for several minutes, just taking in the awareness of the other’s presence. John finally cleared his throat.

“You were gone for three years. Do you have any idea how alone I was? And then I got taken, and figured what the hell? What better way to go out than this? It was a fitting end. Reminded me of you. It’s how I expect to die anyway. By some criminal. One of these days, someone will get the jump on me and I’ll die. It’ll be a good death. A soldier’s death. But I didn’t die, not then anyway. I came close. Really close. I don’t remember a lot of what happened afterwards, to be honest. There are parts of the story that Mycroft or Greg will have to tell you. But.. Do you know who Sheehan was?” John spoke in a quiet voice, so unlike himself. Sherlock hated to see him look and sound so defeated.

“The name rung a bell, but I couldn’t quite place it. Was he from a past case?” Sherlock twisted on the bed, finally looking straight at John as he huffed a brittle laugh.

“I guess you could say that. He told me he’d been working for Moriarty. But after he died, and after you had been picking off the other key players, he had no one to follow. Moriarty was his sun, moon, and stars, Sherlock. The way he idolized him. I’d only ever seen that level of dogged loyalty in the army. People who were just built to serve queen and country and thought that the sun rose and set out of their commander’s ass. When you started doing your thing, you left a power vacuum. And that left Sheehan confused and lost. He was built to take orders. While he had me all… While he had me, he told me that we were the same. We were both soldiers, Sherlock. But whereas I found you to follow and take orders from once I got back, he didn’t have anyone. All he knew was that he believed in Moriarty more than he believed in anything else. More than he believed in himself. And then you came along and took everything from him. So he tried to take everything from you, but he could only get his hands on me.” He shrugged, curling in on himself a bit and scooting further from Sherlock as he jumped off the bed and started pacing back and forth, frantically tearing at his hair.

“He was one of Moriarty’s men? How did I miss him? How could I have overlooked him? He… I… Oh god, John. Oh my god, I did this. I did this to you. If it weren’t for me, this never would have happened. You have to come home with me. Come home, so I can keep you safe. Come home, John.” Sherlock looked on him with wild eyes but John only shook his head.

“You did NOT do this to me, Sherlock. But I can’t come home. I won’t. Not yet. I meant it when I said that I needed some time. You don’t know what I went through, and now the scab is being ripped off of a very big wound. I don’t know how to feel about you knowing, and I sure as shit don’t know how to tell you the rest. I just need to figure this out. But I WILL be home. I promise you that, Sherlock. You just need to give me some time.” Despite John’s reassuring promises, spoken in that gentle voice of his, all Sherlock could hear was that he’d failed. He’d found John and built a life around him, and then he’d failed him. He had lost John Watson. He turned on John and clasped his shoulders to the point of bruising, kneeling down to look him square in the eye. 

“I’m going to make this okay, John. I’ll fix this. I’ll fix it.” With that, he turned on his heel and fled. After the front door slammed, Lestrade cautiously looked through the open door into John’s room. 

“What was all that about? He looked like he had the devil on his heels.” Taking a sip of his beer, he handed another open one to John, who raised it in salute to Lestrade before taking a deep pull.

“God, I don’t know. Should I call his brother?”

~~~~~

Sherlock threw the front door open, the door knob leaving a dent in the plaster of the wall. Panicked, he scrambled into his room and clawed at the loose floorboard beneath his bed. Pulling out a small mahogany box, he stroked it, held it close to his chest. If he was going to fix this, he’d need to have a clear head. He couldn’t afford to have anything else on his mind but John. He’d used all of his needles in various experiments after he stopped using, but he still had his pipe. He knew John would hate him for using, but it was the lesser of two evils. If it meant he’d still be around to hate him, he’d take it. He took a deep breath, pulled out the pipe, and grabbed his lighter. 

He could feel the effects almost immediately, despite the burn. His mind kicked into overdrive, pouring over possibilities and settling on an immediate one. John didn’t want to come home with him because he hadn’t trusted him. If he could move everything of his into his room, and leave the rest of the flat as free of his presence as possible, maybe John would feel comfortable enough to come home. He went into a frenzy. Grabbing papers and books and pictures, he flung them into his room by the armful. He blinked rapidly a few times before carefully moving his violin. After John, it was his next most highly prized posession. He pulled an entire bookcase into his room, books and trinkets falling off the shelves. He kicked them into the room after him. After the living room had been nearly emptied, he’d even moved his armchair and one of the side tables into his room, he moved on to the kitchen. Microscope, slides, pipettes, all went to his room. The experiments that didn’t need refrigeration followed suit, but the ones that did got chucked in the bin. John was more important than a putrefying scalp and a jar of toes. John. John. John. A constant and steady thrum through his head.

John John John. 

John. John. John. 

He’d fix this. He could fix this. He’d find a way to fix this. He had to fix this. Couldn’t lose John had to keep John. Oh god, he was losing John. He blinked back tears as he started to drag his desk towards his room. A tap tap tapping failed to grab his attention. It matched the beat in his head. 

John John John. 

Tap tap tap

John John TAP. 

Sherlock spun towards the front door, twitching and blinking at his brother. Mycroft. Standing there with his damned umbrella. Always with the umbrella, even with no rain in sight. He scrubbed a hand through his wild curls roughly before going back to the desk. 

“No time, Mycroft. Have to finish cleaning. Gotta clean. If I can clean me out of the flat, then John will come back. Gotta get John back. Gotta fix this. If I fix this, John will come back.” He started tugging on the desk in earnest, only to have it start sliding easily after a second. He looked up to see Mycroft at the other end. 

“Let’s get this desk moved, ok? Let’s get John home, Sherlock.” Mycroft put his head down and kept shoving at the desk while Sherlock nodded. Once they got the heavy wooden monstrosity into his room, Mycroft gave it a hefty shove. He knew he’d have to do this quickly. Very quickly. He’d managed to pin Sherlock against the wall, and in one fluid movement pulled a syringe from his pocket and jabbed it into Sherlock’s neck. He snarled, lunging for Mycroft over the desk, but he merely took a step back and watched him fall to the floor. He tried to scramble across the carpet, only managing a single outstretched arm before the sedatives took hold. 

Pulling out his phone, he pushed a button and several of his men entered the flat. Two of them gingerly picked Sherlock up and left with him in tow. Mycroft addressed the remaining. 

“You guys know what the place normally looks like. Set it right. Although, ditch all the… experiments. Doctor Watson should appreciate that bit.” He tapped his umbrella on the floor again and nodded at the men before making his way down the stairs. The two men had set Sherlock up in the car and were buckling the seat belt across his limp form. Mrs. Hudson came out of her apartment at the noises. All it took was the state of Sherlock and Mycroft’s unschooled features for her to put the pieces together. 

“Oh dear. I was wondering what would happen when he found out. Did he…? Oh, he did… Oh, Sherlock…” She teared up, one hand to her mouth, the other over her heart. Mycroft gave her a half smile.

“You took good care of Doctor Watson afterwards. I shall take good care of my brother now. Good evening, Mrs. Hudson.” He closed the door as she stood in the foyer until she could no longer hear the sounds of a sleek black car driving off into the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no history of drug use. I'm going off of knowing people with a history of using, and a particular story where someone put their bed up on top of two book cases while high. So we'll just pretend that Sherlock turns into a caffeinated squirrel like this when he's high.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg goes to Mycroft's to check on Sherlock.

Lestrade was lounging on the couch watching some crap television and nodding off when John walked in. He was clutching his phone and looking as if it had personally insulted him. Lestrade glanced up and raised his eyebrows.

 

“What’s up?”

 

“I just got off the phone with Mycroft. He said… uh… He went to the flat, and Sherlock had taken something and was apparently trying to shove everything of his into his room. He kept saying that if he could ‘clean himself out of the flat’ that I’d come home.” John fell heavily onto the couch as Lestrade sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

“Bloody hell. I figured he had a stash, but I could never find it. Did he leave the flat?”

 

“Well, he left when Mycroft shot him up with a sedative and had him physically carried out. He brought him to his place to come down and make sure he was looked after. I… I don’t know if I should go, Greg. I can’t be around him right now. Especially knowing that he used again. I’d only yell at him, and I know I’d say something I’d regret. He… I told him that Sheehan was one of Moriarty’s men, so it’s probably my fault he used in the first place. You should go. See if he’s doing okay. Tell him he’s an idiot. It’ll hurt less coming from you.” John dropped his head back onto the back of the couch, sighing heavily and staring into the middle distance. Lestrade bit his lower lip and stood up slowly.

 

“ You didn’t shove it into his hands and make him do anything, John. But if you want me to go, I will. Or I could just call Mycroft and see how Sherlock’s doing… Will you be okay on your own if I go?” Lestrade was already putting his coat on, buttoning it up all the way to his neck. John nodded.

 

“Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine. Could probably use a few minutes alone. I’ll take a shower and just use up all the hot water or something. I’d rather someone went and saw him. Someone I can trust to tell me the truth afterwards. It’s fine.” Lestrade ducked his head and, leaving John to his thoughts, headed out towards Mycroft’s house.

 

~~~~~

 

_He’d only been there once or twice previously. Back before John. Back when the drugs were still a thing. He’d sat in a luxurious chair, drinking expensive tea out of a priceless cup, and told Mycroft point blank that he would arrest his brother given the first opportunity. Sherlock had sat off to the side, twitching and scratching as he stared out the window. Mycroft had smirked and leaned forward slightly._

_“Come now, Detective Inspector. Surely we can be reasonable men. I’m not saying you’re bad at your job, but I am saying that my brother’s mind doesn’t work the way the average man’s does. You’ve seen what he’s capable of, and that’s with being compromised. We get him clean, we keep him clean, and you let him… Consult. It would be to both of your advantages.” Mycroft, with that annoying simper on his face, had seemed amused._

_“How is allowing a drugged out coke fiend onto my crime scenes going to be to my advantage? He’s not on the force, Mr. Holmes. I can’t just give him a special hall pass and set him loose.” Lestrade started to gesture wildly, keeping his faculties enough to set his teacup down before he stained anything worth more than his salary._

_“Do not be mistaken. He would not be allowed anywhere near a crime scene until he was clean. Think of this as incentive for him to remain clean. As I said before, this will be mutually beneficial. He gets to use his considerable talents, as long as he remains clean, and you get help on difficult cases. Besides, we both know I am more than capable of making it worth your while.” Mycroft slowly eyed Lestrade up and down, making him feel like he was being eaten alive._

_“Worth my while, hm? Sherlock tells me you’re pretty much the British government. Suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have that on my side.” Lestrade attempted to remain calm, retrieving his cup and taking another sip._

_“Yes, let’s pretend that’s what I meant.”_

_Lestrade nearly shot tea out of his nose while Mycroft sat back and chuckled quietly._

~~~~~

 

He pulled up to a wrought iron gate and pulled out his phone.

 

>>Open the gate. -GL

 

A few moments later, the gate slowly lurched into life and he drove through. Parking in front of the house, he knocked on the door and was met by Mycroft himself.

 

“Detective Inspector. I must admit, I was expecting Doctor Watson. Although, I shouldn’t be surprised that he didn’t come. He said he needs space, and I know he doesn’t approve of Sherlock’s recent choices.” Mycroft took a step back, gesturing Lestrade inside.

 

“You mean that John’s pretty fucked up and now he gets to be pissed off that Sherlock broke a nine year long sober streak? Yeah, yeah I can see why he didn’t come either.” Lestrade pushed past Mycroft and walked into the sitting room. The same one he’d sat in almost a decade ago and promised to help keep Sherlock clean. There was a tea service out, the same china they had drank from all those years ago.

 

“You’re here to inquire about my brother’s state. You needn’t have bothered. John would be the first to find out if anything were to happen, you know. Besides, I doubt Sherlock will be doing anything else to upset him. Guilt is such a powerful emotion. It keeps him in check.”

 

“Do you even care? Sherlock was sober for almost a decade! Then he threw it all away. And for what?” Greg ran a hand roughly through his hair, leaving a few tufts sticking out.

 

“For what, indeed. Think about it, Gregory. What exactly is John Watson to Sherlock? We both know my brother. He’s a self-proclaimed sociopath, yet he faked his own death and ran off to the dark side of the moon in order to protect those he cares about. You included, if you’d care to remember. He’s never needed anyone, not even me. Yet he has wrapped his tendrils around John and simply refuses to let go. We’ve watched my brother go through a metamorphosis, and I’d daresay he’s almost human these days. He gave up his long-held sobriety for the one man who means more to him than himself. For Sherlock, that’s a very important to place to hold.” Mycroft stood still, his arms behind his back as Greg began to pace the room.

 

“I’m not saying John isn’t a worthy cause. God knows, the world needs more men like John Watson. But I AM saying that doing something in the name of love justifies nothing!”

 

“At least we agree that they love each other.” Mycroft allowed a brief moment of sadness and regret to flutter across his features before squaring his shoulders and turning to the tea service beside him. Instead of pouring the tea, he found himself whirling as Greg shoved his back against the wall.

 

“Damnit, Mycroft. You don’t get to do this. You know how I feel and I’m tired of you using it against me when the need suits you. No more excuses. We’ve been dancing around this thing for NINE fucking years and it ends tonight. There will always be something bigger than us to worry about. First it was Sherlock, then John came along, and now what? I’m not about to let whatever we could have go because we’re too caught up in other things to worry about each other for once.” Greg brought his fists down against the wall on either side of Mycroft’s head, eliciting a soft gasp.

 

“My dear Gregory. Look at what room we are in. Look at the cups. Not everyone gets the good china, you know.” Mycroft smirked at the dawning realization on Greg’s face. He allowed himself a moment of reflection before a hand curled behind Mycroft’s neck and pulled his head down roughly, claiming his lips in a bruising kiss. Mycroft returned the kiss with a restrained intensity that made him moan.

 

“Why did you wait so long, Mycroft? You knew I wanted you.” Greg bit at the older man’s lower lip, his fingers curling tighter in his hair.

 

“And you knew I wanted you. You said it yourself. Too busy worrying about others to worry about each other. You were always there, I still saw you. I was content to settle for that, in lieu of having more. One Holmes brother is more than enough for any man.” Mycroft stood up straighter against the wall, his hands fisting in Greg’s shirt as he leaned forward. Greg pushed him back again, wedging a knee between his thighs and unbuttoning Mycroft’s suit jacket. He ran a hand inside, smoothing over body warmed material and pushed himself closer.

 

“I noticed you, Mycroft. You’re hard to miss. But I wasn’t about to assume I was the only one caught up in you. Look at you. God, what would a man like you want with someone like me? I was just your brother’s keeper.” Greg pulled back as Mycroft stilled beneath his touch.

 

“You really thought that, didn’t you? Thought that because I am who I am, that I wouldn’t want you. I’m more than my job, Gregory. More than my name.” Mycroft pushed Greg away from him, buttoning his jacket and smoothing the wrinkles. His upper lip curled into a look of contempt.

 

“Jesus, Mycroft. I know that. I just meant that you can have your pick of anyone you want. So why me? I’m not going off on some self-deprecating bullshit here. I’m just honestly surprised I showed up on your radar to begin with.” Greg reached out, gripping Mycroft’s elbow and running a thumb along the inside. Kept him close, didn’t let him run. With a sigh, Mycroft lowered his head and covered his forehead before looking back up at Greg.

 

“I don’t give my heart away easily. It’s not an act I make a habit of, and I’ve tried to be certain each time. But love is not a certain man’s game, and certainly not one I’ve played often. I was never sure of your intentions. Speaking as someone who knows a thing or two about politics, I can say with honesty that I’m a powerful ally to have. You wouldn’t have been the first to use their charms in order to keep me in their good graces. I--” Greg cut him off with a low chuckle, his free hand slipping around Mycroft’s waist.

 

“Let me get this straight. We’ve spent the last 9 years thinking that you’d never want me, and that I’d only want you for the wrong reasons? Ha. Well, let me just set your mind at ease. I want you, Mycroft. Not as a political ally to further my career, no. I told you, I noticed you. I noticed the way you fight to keep cool and calm around your brother so that he won’t know just how deeply you care. I noticed the way shiny black cars kept driving past whenever I was with John while Sherlock was… While we thought he… I noticed the way you’re a living, breathing human being just like the rest of us average schmucks. If I cut you, you’ll bleed. I noticed that. THAT’S what I wanted. The balding man with an annoyingly brilliant brother and an odd penchant for umbrellas.” Greg spoke softly, ducking his head and looking up at Mycroft through his eyebrows. Smirking at that last jab, and Mycroft’s half-offended gasp.

 

“Yes, well. Sherlock did seem to get all the hair, didn’t he?”

 

“I also noticed the way you look at my ass in a few particular pairs of pants.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went into this story without a single Mystrade thought in my head. You can thank janto321 for turning me on to it. ;) So enjoy the beginnings of a surprise romantic sub-plot! Not sure what all I'll do with these two, but you can bet this won't be the last we've seen of them.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much going on in this chapter. If this story were a roller coaster, we'd be at the peak right before all the loops and dips. I wanted a cute chapter before that all started. 
> 
> Warning: There is a heavy handed bit of emotional manipulation in this chapter. Just a forewarning =)

Greg unlocked the door and walked into an empty apartment. The television was still on, trying its best to sell a set of knives to the empty teacup on the coffee table. 

“John?” His voice rang out as he took his coat off. He heard a muffled reply from the bathroom.

“In here!” A few minutes later, John emerged in a cloud of steam. With only a towel wrapped around his waist, Greg openly stared at his torso as he headed into the came into the living room and rolled his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that. You know I don’t worry about them anymore. It is what it is.” 

“I know. They’re still… I don’t know. You don’t mind them, but c’mon. You look at them in the mirror every day and are still better adjusted to everything than I am. You’re a greater man than I.” He shrugged and grabbed a couple beers from the fridge. John set his on the counter and headed to his room, shaking his head.

“I’d rather not have them, Greg, but it was either these or a casket.” He returned a few moments later, dressed and rubbing the towel over his hair. He cracked the beer open and sunk onto the couch. 

“Ugh. Don’t remind me. The state you were in when we finally found you. You looked half --” 

“Don’t say it. I know what I looked like and I’d rather not talk about it. It’s bad enough I have to tell Sherlock everything. It happened, it’s over, I survived. End of story. Now, put the game on and let’s ignore our feelings like proper men.” He pointedly stared straight ahead at the television, signalling the end of the conversation.

~~~~~

John started getting weird looks as soon he walked in the front door of the hospital. The first time, he checked his shirt for jam. The second time, he ducked into a bathroom to check his teeth. By the fifth person, he had made it to his office and unlocked the door. Someone else’s family was in a frame on the desk, with someone else’s half-dead potted plant in the corner next to someone else’s coat on the hook. 

“What are you DOING here, John? I’ve been told by about ten different people that they saw you come in. After that little stunt with the phone call, I didn’t expect to see you around here again. At least you provided a replacement, but jeez. What were you THINKING?” He jumped as Sarah came in behind him.

“Whoa, wait, what? What phone call? What replacement? Where’s my stuff?”

“What do you mean ‘what phone call’? I got a call from Mycroft Holmes last night saying that you wouldn’t be working here anymore, and that your replacement’s resume was on my desk. Sure enough, there’s a resume for some guy from Kent. He’s nice enough, and perfectly qualified. But it was all a little SUDDEN, John.” She tilted her head as his face reddened and his lips thinned. 

“I see. Or rather, I don’t see. Oh, but I will. I’m glad Mr. Replacement seems ok. I’m going to pay Mycroft a visit and get this all straightened out.” He nodded curtly at Sarah, turned on his heel, and walked out. As he expected, a black car pulled up and the door opened. The sooner he got to punch Mycroft in the face, the better. His wishes were granted, it seemed, when Mycroft himself was sitting in the facing seat as he slid in. 

“Good morning, Doctor Watson.” Mycroft tilted his head in greeting.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t break your jaw right now.” John’s teeth clenched until they were audibly grinding. 

“I’ll give you one very good reason. Sherlock.” 

“You might want to start explaining that. I’m feeling rather punchy at the moment.” John stared Mycroft in the eye, keeping a calm clip to his voice. Mycroft merely rearranged his position in the car, settling in.

“Of course. Sherlock feels considerable guilt over what befell you in his absence. He’s been trying to get back to Baker Street ever since I brought him home, saying that he needs to protect you and can’t do that if he’s being held prisoner. He’s free to go, as soon as I’m sure he’s no longer a danger to himself. However, this whole thing was originally his idea. He was going to email Ms. Sawyer, obviously pretending to be you, and quit. I intervened, of course. It would be rather rude to leave them down a doctor so suddenly. Luckily for me, I knew just the man. A colleague’s brother. Excellent gentleman. Wanted to get away from an atrocious soon to be ex-wife, so this was the perfect opportunity.” Mycroft spoke as if he was stating the obvious while John dug his fingernails into the leather. 

“So you let Sherlock take my JOB away from me? Haven’t I gone through enough because of him? Kidnapping and torture isn’t enough, he wants my job? Everything that keeps me separate from him. I am not his little lapdog, following him to the ends of the earth. I’m going to call Sarah and I’m going to get my job back. Now, stop the car.” 

“No. John, I am not siding with Sherlock on this. Far from it. It was a rather underhanded move for him to plan, and as hard as it is for you to believe, I do regret my interference. You have every right to be angry at both of us for this, and you especially have every right to hate Sherlock right now. It’s asking a lot of you, but you’re the stronger of the two right now. I haven’t seen him like this in.. years. When I realized what he was planning, it was serendipitous, however. He needs a watchful eye right now. Even more so when he learns the final details of what happened to you. There’s no one I trust my brother with more than you, John. I think maybe some time from the clinic would do you both good. You yourself have stated a need for space, and once you’re ready to be around my brother again, he’s going to need you more than ever. He made me promise to ask you to call. I said I’d mention it, but made no promises as to results. Ah, here we are.” The car rolled to a stop outside Greg’s apartment. John glanced at Mycroft before opening the door and getting out. 

“I’ll.. think about it. This isn’t permanent. I just.. I knew he’d react this way, you know? He claims to have no emotions, but he feels so deeply. Especially when it’s something he feels he could have had any power over. Just tell him that I’m doing okay, and that I’m glad he’s doing okay, and that I might call tonight. MIGHT.” John nodded and shut the door, taking the stairs slowly. He heard music as he approached the door, and opened it cautiously. What he saw almost made him turn around and walk back to Baker Street and never speak of that day again. 

Greg, clad only in boxer shorts and a white tank top, was vacuuming the carpet. Not only that, but singing along to a top 40’s pop radio station. He knew every word, and was quite adept at dancing while cleaning. John nearly shoved his entire fist in his mouth trying not to laugh. The door opening caught Greg’s attention, however, and for a hilarious moment he was a deer in the headlights. Scrambling for the radio, he slapped at it until it turned off. 

“John! Why aren’t you at work? I was just…” Greg sputtered and gripped the vacuum handle tightly.

“I WAS supposed to be at work, but Mycroft and Sherlock kind of stole my job. Sorta glad they did, though. How often do you do this? Is it always pop music?” John flopped into the recliner and buried his head in his hands in laughter. Greg pursed his lips.

“You don’t have to laugh THAT hard. It’s just background noise while I clean. You weren’t supposed to.. ah.. supposed to see it. What do you mean they stole your job?” Greg sat down on the couch while John stopped laughing long enough to speak.

“Apparently Sherlock was going to send Sarah an email from ‘me’ quitting, but Mycroft intervened. He made a phone call and sent in a replacement. Some guy he owed a favor to, I guess. Mycroft told me that while he disagreed with Sherlock’s reasoning, he thought it might be nice if I had more time to spend with him. That I’m the only one he trusts with Sherlock, and that as unfair as it is to me to have all this on my shoulders, that I’m in the best place to take care of Sherlock. So. There we have it.” 

“That’s kind of fucked up. I mean.. They stole your job. But… Are you going to? Take care of Sherlock, that is. He’s a grown adult, he can take care of himself.” Greg sat forward on the couch, watching John intently. 

“I don’t know. In some ways, he really can’t take care of himself. I know how he gets. He feels like everything is his fault, and he’ll self-destruct without me there to prove that I’m okay.”

“So what are you gonna do?”

“I guess I’m going home.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes brothers each face the fallout of their actions, to slightly different results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap this is a long chapter compared to the others. It just kept going! I apologize if any parts of this chapter seem stilted or awkward. I've been awake for almost 40 hours as of this writing, and I wouldn't let myself go to bed until this chapter was posted!

Sherlock jumped at the sound of voices downstairs. The soothing timbre of John’s and the maternal rise and fall of Mrs. Hudson’s. His head still pounded and he felt sick to his stomach after his brief reunion with drugs. Curled up on the couch, he rolled onto his stomach so he could watch the front door. John said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson and walked in. He gave Sherlock a deadpan look and a nod before going into his bedroom. Sherlock could hear drawers opening and closing, and the squeak of John’s closet door. He was unpacking. Hopefully. Or he was repacking. Not hopefully. The springs of his bed groaned; he was sitting at the foot of his bed. Then there was silence. Worrying. Sherlock sat up quickly after a few minutes. Too quickly, as his stomach revolted. He rushed to the bathroom and barely made it to the toilet in time to throw up foam and bile. He hated throwing up on an empty stomach, but he hardly saw the point in eating at the best of times, let alone when it would just go to waste ten minutes later. He wiped his mouth and brushed his teeth before heading back into the living room. The couch had such a sweet siren’s song, and he wasn’t one to ignore it. 

When he walked into the living room, John was sat at the kitchen table, his hands spread palm down before him.

“John! I thought you were still in your room.” Sherlock was having trouble reading him, couldn’t get a deduction other than that things were a bit not good. He knew things were quite a bit not good when John finally looked up at him. 

“How dare you? How DARE you, Sherlock? From the moment I met you I lost all privacy. You told me my life story in the same breath you learned my name. And I was okay with this. I have nothing to hide, and I was used to not having secrets in the army. But then you took every bit of privacy I had as soon as I moved in. You take my things without asking. You throw my stuff away if the need suits you. You are inconsiderate, rude, invasive, and the thing is; you don’t care. And up until now, neither did I. That’s who you are, and I really like who you are. You’re brilliant and you understand me in ways that even I don’t. You know what I need. But this is where I’ve come to some realizations. You know what the ex-soldier needs. You know that Captain Watson needs danger, excitement, the threat of the unknown hanging over his head. But I’m not Captain Watson anymore, am I? I’m Doctor Watson. I wear wooly jumpers, and I drink tea, and I work at a clinic.. No, that’s not right, is it? I WORKED at a clinic. I WORKED at a clinic where I helped people, and healed them. But you took that from me. 

You decided that you were more important to me than my career and livelihood. And so you deceived me. You were going to pretend to be me, and you were going to quit my job for me. You wouldn’t have just robbed me of my job, Sherlock. You would have robbed so many people of their doctor. And that’s the problem! You don’t see me as important unless I’m feeding your ego. Or else I’m little more than a skull that can fucking talk back! 

How dare you think so little of me, and yet claim I’m so important to you. It’s not fair. And it is NOT okay. So yes. I’m home now. And I won’t be leaving. But don’t for one second think that I forgive you for this, or that you won’t have to earn my trust again.” John spoke with a quiet passion that left him silently staring at John with wide eyes. Gravity sunk into Sherlock, seeping into every cell of his body and telling him just how badly he had screwed up. Seeing John be so angry but looking like it wasn’t a surprise hurt him deeply. He’d never given much thought to how he treated people. Never saw them as important until John came along and became so very important. But he never learned how to show that to another person. How to say “I care about you and your life and everything you do” without words. He could barely say it with words. He wanted to tell John how wrong he was. Tell him how important and central and grounding he was. Wanted, needed to tell John how brilliant he was, in all the ways Sherlock could never be. 

John stood and left the room. Left Sherlock standing in the kitchen with a heart full of emotions and a mouth full of words he couldn’t say. The words simply died on his tongue before they could even flutter to life.

~~~~~

Greg tossed his phone onto his bed. This was not going as easily as he had foolishly hoped it would. After hearing about John and Sherlock’s conversation, he wanted to just lay down flat on the floor and never think about the whole mess again. John was one of his favorite people. A man he very deeply respected and admired. He didn’t want to see him hurting because of this clusterfuck; memories brought to the surface, telling Sherlock, and dealing with all the aftermath. It was a special torment he’d rather save for enemies. But like he’d once heard; when you’re going through hell, keep going.

And so he found himself driving out to Mycroft’s house. This time, he just sat at the gate and laid on the horn until it opened. Mycroft was standing at the front door by the time he pulled around. 

“John sure is a hell of a doctor, isn’t he? Not that he has a job anymore to prove it.” Greg slammed the door as he got out of the car before leaning back against it, his arms crossed over his chest with a glower.

“Let’s not do this out here, Gregory. Come inside and let me explain properly.” Mycroft pinned Greg under his gaze until he pushed off from the car and walked inside. Mycroft closed the door behind them and gestured him into a different room than last time. It appeared to be a study or an office. Large wooden shelves laden with books that had probably never been read surrounded an antique desk.

“Ok. Spill. Why did you do that to John? Better make it good, Mycroft.” Greg sat on the edge of the desk and stared up at him. Mycroft sighed softly and walked to a framed photo of two children on the wall. He carefully removed it, running his fingertips lightly over the glass before handing it to Greg. 

 

“He’s five here, I’m twelve. It was just before Christmas, and he had decided that he needed to perform experiments on all the ornaments from the tree. They were old, very old. Passed down through generations. When my parents found him with all the shattered pieces, I immediately piped in that it was my fault. I told them I tripped into the tree and he was merely trying to glue the pieces back together. Even at that age, he was very good with a puzzle. He could see that I was trying to help, so he played along. I guess that’s when it started. I see Sherlock in a mess, and I have to save him. He’s utterly brilliant, but has no sense of self-preservation. He honestly thinks that he’ll always be safe because he’s too brilliant to be in too much danger. Half of my time is spent running the Government and the other half is spent keeping my brother out of trouble. I thought I could relax when John came around. He’s such an honest fellow, good for Sherlock. Being a soldier, I thought he could keep him in check. But if anything, he’s made him worse. Sherlock has been stretching himself. All to show off for John. And while John does a lot to keep him physically safe, legally I’m having a harder and harder time keeping things quiet. I’m sure you’ve had a similar problem. 

My brother is a good man, Gregory. Sometimes the ends don’t quite justify the means, but he isn’t malevolent. Look at the mess we’re all in. He faked his own death just so that he could run away across the globe and save a few lives. Granted, they’re important lives. I’m so very grateful to you, Mrs. Hudson, and John for what you’ve done for Sherlock. However, I know that if Moriarty had come along a few years earlier, we’d be dealing with a very different outcome. 

Sherlock wanted to quit John’s job so that he could keep him under his microscope. He wants to pin the doctor to a slide and study him, keep him in a neat little case, take him out when he wants to look at him. I stepped in and took over. Please believe me when I say I didn’t want to. I spent hours trying to talk him down from the idea. You know my brother though. When he gets an idea in his head, nothing can deter him. Damned be the consequences, whether or not he’s the one suffering them. That’s how John was kidnapped and tortured, and why you and I spend our days sorting through red tape to keep him out of prison. 

I try not to be too manipulative if I don’t absolutely have to. I’m not above manipulating my brother to keep him safe, but I try to keep other people off limits. Unfortunately, you and John have gotten tied in with this and for that I am truly sorry. I know you came here to yell at me for John’s job, and I deserve it. But with me doing the damage, I made sure the clinic still had a competent doctor in their midst, I deposited enough money into John’s bank account that he won’t need to look for a job for awhile, but not enough that he’ll feel the need to say anything. If Sherlock had done things, he wouldn’t have cared about who all was effected. This way, there’s as little collateral damage as possible.” Mycroft’s voice, gentle and strong, filled the room as Greg kept looking at the photo. Sherlock was a cute little kid, all giant innocent eyes and those unmistakable curls. He was smiling, too. An honest, comically huge cartoon smile that all children have. 

“When did he lose his smile?” Greg handed the picture back to Mycroft and stood up.

“Hm? Oh. I suppose around the time father died. Cancer. It took him very quickly, and the doctors kept him comfortable through the end. He could really only tolerate Sherlock’s presence through it though, which I suppose was part of the problem. Mummy felt he took Father from her at the end, and after… She could barely look at him. Sherlock turned inward and pulled away from everyone. I couldn’t.. I didn’t have the time to repair our relationship. I had just left for college at that time, and didn’t have much in the line of free time. So it was just Sherlock and Mummy alone in this great big house. 

I’ve done things I’m not proud of, Gregory. I’ve made mistakes, and I’ve made hard decisions that I still question. But until the day I die, my biggest regret shall always be letting my relationship with Sherlock crumble. Things have never been the same between us, and I fear they never will be.” Mycroft had turned his back to Greg, looking out the window at the garden below. A few skeleton trees and brittle grass were all that spotted the ground, the flowerbeds empty and brown this time of year. Greg walked around to his side and despite Mycroft turning his head, he could see the pain in his eyes.

“Hey, hey. Mycroft. Look at me. Yeah, I came here with the intention of yelling at you. I was going to make sure you knew that there’d be hell to pay. But look at yourself. You’ve been paying it since the day Sherlock was born, haven’t you? I came here to yell at a manipulative man. But instead, I found a man terrified for his little brother. You’ve spent your whole life cleaning up his progressively bigger messes, but you don’t have to anymore. You’re Mycroft, you are NOT Atlas. You don’t have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. Eventually Sherlock will have to grow into his own man and deal with the consequences of his mistakes.” He pulled Mycroft around to face him, hands gripping his shoulders. 

“I’m unsure of what my next move should be.” Mycroft took a deep breath and and steadied himself. Greg wasn’t sure what to do next. He’d never seen Mycroft be anything but a pillar of strength, smirking and sighing with his rapier wit and brilliant sarcasm. Now… Now he was looking at a vulnerable man, who had carried far too heavy of a burden for far too long. He wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do, but he went with his gut. Leaning in, he closed the gap and kissed Mycroft softly on the lips, wrapping his arms around him before pulling back just enough to speak. 

“This isn’t a burden you have to carry. Not alone, not anymore. John’s a strong man. Let him help Sherlock. Let Sherlock help himself. For now, why don’t you let me help you?” A soft gasp from Mycroft as Greg chuckled softly, brushing his lips against Mycroft’s neck. 

“I think.. This is the sort of help I am quite keen to accept.” Mycroft slid a hand along Greg’s side, curling his fingers and catching his shirt. Greg pushed against him tightly, slotting their hips together and rolling against him. Mycroft gave a slight groan and brought a hand up to cup Greg’s jaw, claiming him in a possessive kiss. 

“Nine years I’ve waited for this, waited to have you. Don’t make me wait much longer.” Mycroft breathed the words into him, filling him with smoke and fire. Greg deftly loosened Mycroft’s belt, opening his fly and pushing his pants down to mid-thigh. Mycroft leaned back against the desk slightly as Greg ran a hand over warm skin, trailing closer to the waistband of his underwear. 

“I’m gonna make you forget those nine years, Mycroft. Make you feel so good you won’t think a day has passed that I haven’t had my hands on you.” Greg whispered harshly, his fingertips ghosting over the straining erection at his mercy. Mycroft pushed his hips forward, attempting to make contact. 

“Touch me, Gregory.” Panting against his shoulder, he gave himself over to sensation as Greg slipped a hand inside and wrapped his fingers around the velvet steel of his erection. Nimble fingers pulled him free of his clothing and he shivered as Greg settled into a rhythm. His own body synced up of its own accord, his hips thrusting minutely. 

“C’mon, that’s it. Love watching you like this. Never thought I’d see it.” Greg muttered into his ear, told him dizzying, intoxicating things as he ran his thumb over the tip of Mycroft’s erection. The resulting tremor produced a dark chuckle and a deep kiss. 

“Gregory…” Mycroft was almost beyond words, being driven expertly towards his finish. Greg took a teasing route; urging him slowly to the precipice only to back off and bring him back to earth at the last second. 

“I want to see you fall apart, Mycroft. Want to see you shake to pieces, all for me. Always for me. Can you do that? Can you come for me?” Greg sunk his teeth into the meat of his shoulder before gentling into tender licks and nibbles as he shook under his touch. Mycroft’s head fell back as he came with a gentle cry, spilling over Greg’s hand as his fingers scrambled for purchase on his arms, his sides, any part he could reach. He nearly lost it again when, after coming back down to earth, he looked at Greg only to see him calmly licking his hand clean. Mycroft quirked an eyebrow as he started to straighten his clothing.

“I think I should give you fair warning for next time; I truly believe in giving as good as you get.” In answer, Greg flashed a brilliant, toothy grin and licked another finger clean.


	9. Chapter 9

“Sherlock, you have to eat SOMETHING. If you’re going to keep throwing up, it’ll help if you actually have something TO throw up.” John stood outside the bathroom door, listening to Sherlock’s heaving for the third time that hour.

 

“No. Why eat when it’s coming back up anyway?” Sherlock moaned and weakly tossed the toilet brush at the door. It barely made it, bristles whispering against the door and handle clacking on the floor. The door opened and, with an irritated sigh, John handed him a wash cloth and his tooth brush.

 

“Because you need nutrients right now. You know, those silly little collections of vitamins and minerals that keep you alive? You have two choices. Either you eat, or I feed you intravenously. I’m a doctor, remember.” Ten minutes later, they were in a cab heading towards Angelo’s. Sherlock had chosen to eat, but refused anything John made under the accusation that he’d only hide medicine in it anyway. Paying the cabbie upon arrival, they headed inside. As soon as Angelo saw them, he came running over with a grin that quickly slid from his face when he saw Sherlock.

 

“My friends! Come in, come in. I hav-- Oh my, Sherlock, you look like hell!” His normal cheer only got a scowl from Sherlock as he sat heavily in the chair.

 

“He’s feeling a bit under the weather right now. Do you have any plain broth or something? This was the only place he’d agree to when I made him eat.” John flickered a perfunctory smile before sitting across from Sherlock and studying him.

 

“Of course, of course. The best chicken stock in all of England! My own mama’s recipe! I shall bring you something too, John! Maybe with a bit more oomph than broth, though.” Angelo bowed his head before scampering back into the kitchen. John shook his head.

 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s back there birthing some chickens himself to use.” When Sherlock remained silent, he turned his gaze out the window to watch cars and people wander past. Ten minutes later, Angelo returned with a bowl of broth with crackers for Sherlock and a plate of tortellini for John. As Sherlock tried to push his bowl away, John halted its progression by stabbing his fork onto the table. “No. Sherlock, you are eating at least some of that. And what you don’t eat, we’ll take home. Eventually, you are going to eat that entire bowl. The more you get down now, the less you’ll have to get down later.”

 

If looks could kill, John would have been dead before he knew what hit him and attending his own funeral. He flashed a cocky grin when Sherlock started to eat though.

 

Possibly just to prove a point, or because in all honesty he had been sort of hungry, Sherlock finished the bowl and gave John his best smug bitchface. John held up his hands in mock surrender and they said their goodbyes to Angelo. As soon as they walked outside, the cold evening air slamming into them as they turned toward home, Sherlock darted down an alley. John could hear the unmistakable sound of a bowlful of broth being puked onto the ground beside a dumpster.

 

“I told you to take it slow, Sherlock! But doesn’t it feel better throwing up when there’s something on your stomach?” Rolling his eyes, he tugged his coat tighter around him and buttoned it. He received a grunt in response, but it wasn’t the usual ‘I refuse to dignify that with a response’ grunt. He took off into the alley like a shot when he heard a second voice and saw a silhouette attacking Sherlock. With a shout, he charged the man, shoving Sherlock out of the way. He ducked his head and rugby tackled the kid to the ground. Sitting on his stomach, he drove his fist into his jaw time and again as his vision and focus tightened. He could no longer hear the ambient sounds of traffic and chatter. The kid tried to raise his hands to push John off, but didn’t get further than his sides before John felt his nose break and his jaw wobble. He continued, pinning the thug with his knees and rhythmically punching left, right, left, right.

 

“....n”

 

“...on”

 

“JOHN!” Sherlock was screaming his name, scrambling at his shoulders and trying to pull his arms back.

 

“Let go of me, Sherlock! Let go!” John twisted and broke his arms free. However, before he could get back to punching the thug who had attacked Sherlock, he was shoved bodily off him. Landing on his back with a thud, he looked up to Sherlock standing over him, a foot on either side of his hips.

 

“Look at him, John. I think he is quite incapable of further harming me.” He gestured next to John, the kid’s face a broken, bloody mess. He stared blankly before Sherlock nudged him with a gentle foot and helped him up with one hand, pulling out his phone with the other.

 

>>Trash in alley next to Angelo’s. Thug had it coming. Might want to send an ambulance too. -SH

>>Thanks for the heads up. I don’t want to know. -GL

 

“Let’s just go home, Sherlock.” John straightened his coat and walked half a step ahead 0of Sherlock the entire way, eyes darting around.

 

“Yes. Let’s go home before you attempt to murder anyone else, and I am forced to chase you around London. I’d rather not do that, you know. You might prove harder to catch than the average criminal. You’d slip up eventually though. Still, it’d be a thrilling chase. I’d love to see how you work as a criminal.” Sherlock tried to step into line with John, but the shorter man kept throwing him glares and taking a pointedly bigger step to remain ahead. Despite Sherlock’s whining about his behavior, he remained on high alert until they were safely climbing the stairs to their flat. The adrenaline was starting to fade by this point, and he was glad the couch was in sight.

 

“If I make you some tea, will you calm down and stop acting like an idiot?” Sherlock huffed as he unlocked the front door and pulled his scarf and coat off. John’s first clue that something was wrong came when he started to unbutton his coat as Sherlock headed into the kitchen. His coat stuck. Just a bit. His side stung as he pulled it open and he looked down. Despite the the dark color of his shirt, he could still see the dark stain of blood flowering. He quickly tore his coat off, hung it up, and walked towards the bathroom. He needed to not seem suspicious, or else Sherlock would notice. He couldn’t see John hurt. Not with where the injury was.

 

“Yeah, yeah. This idiot saved your bacon, though. A ‘thank you for being my hero’ cuppa wouldn’t go amiss though. I’m hitting the loo.” He managed to keep his voice calm and steady, softly shutting the door behind him. Once inside, he quickly unbuttoned his shirt and peeled the material from his side before removing it and tossing it on the floor. Taking a wash cloth, he turned the tap on just enough to get a small, silent stream to wet it with. He took stock of the wound as he gingerly cleaned the blood away. His hands shook, and he scrubbed a little harder than he meant, hissing at the flash of pain. A neat incision, about 3 or 4 inches long and thankfully not horribly deep, adorned his side. Muttering to himself about thugs and knives and unoriginal weapons, he touched the edges of the wound. Satisfied that it wasn’t particularly major and that he shouldn’t need more than butterfly stitches to close him up, he bent to retrieve the first aid kid from below the sink.

 

“John? There’s a trail of blood from the front door to the bathroom. Why are you bleeding? Why didn’t you tell me that kid hurt you?” Sherlock’s voice sounded a little fuzzy around the edges and muffled.

 

“M’fine. Goway!” John tried to shoo him off, but his voice came out all wrong. Weak and quiet and not at all strong and forceful like he wanted. The more he wiped at his side, the more blood spilled out. Pressing on the cloth, he tried to stop the flow. Despite his haze and growing dizziness, John could tell he had lost more blood than he thought. He shook his head and blinked rapidly, trying to clear the fog and keep his head on straight.

 

“It’s a rather alarming amount of blood, John. Between that and your slurred speech I’d say you are most definitely not okay.” The door opened and John froze. He wanted to clear his head, and it finally did. Ten seconds too late. Sherlock stood stock still in the doorway, staring with wide eyes. John closed his. He knew what Sherlock saw. He’d seen it every day in the mirror for two years now.

 

Row after row after row of neat, precise scarring. Words, repeated hundreds of times across his chest, stomach, sides, back. Everywhere on his torso. The same words.

 

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes_

 

John finally dared to look at Sherlock. His face was an unreadable mask. The only movement from either of them was Sherlock’s eyes darting frantically over his skin. John flinched backwards as Sherlock took half a step towards him, hand reaching out carefully.

 

“John, I..” Sherlock couldn’t tear his eyes from the scarring. They looked like burns, long since healed. A few shades paler than the rest of John’s skin, they almost seemed to glow in the harsh lighting of the bathroom. He took another step forward, and John didn’t flinch this time. He reached out again, carefully laid his entire palm over the scars near John’s bullet wound. When he glanced up at his face, John was silently crying. Sherlock ran a hand up over his shoulder, cupping his neck and jaw as he took everything in. The scarring continued onto his back in the same neat rows. Roger Sheehan’s work spoke for itself. He started to catch on to just what John meant when he had talked about him the other day. Instinctively, John tilted his head into Sherlock’s touch, pushed his body closer and started to openly sob.

 

“Uhm. We should… I should probably get you stitched up.” Sherlock slowly pulled his hand back and rooted around in the medical kit. Finding what he needed, he turned back to John and gestured for him to sit down on the toilet. As he set to work, John buried his face in his hand and kept sobbing. Deep, wracking sobs that made Sherlock’s chest tighten and hands jump around on John’s skin. He had to time the needle with John’s sobs. A few messy but sufficient minutes of stitching later, he finished taping some gauze over the cut and stood up. He took a deep shuddering breath and ran his hand over his cheek and through his hair. As he turned to clean up the medical kit, he saw his face. His hands had still been covered in John’s blood and now the rest of him matched. The thought of his hands now physically being covered in blood to match the figurative blood from his torture forced a high pitched, panicky laugh from him. He looked down at John and despite the tears having slowed down, he couldn’t help but see the broken man he had become.

 

When Sherlock left to destroy Moriarty’s web, he had left an ex-soldier behind. But here, sitting on the toilet and wiping at tears that wouldn’t seem to stop, was a very different man. So very broken and different. Sherlock shuddered and swept from the bathroom. He grabbed his coat and ran into the night.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote the bathroom scene about four different ways before I was marginally happy with it. I still feel like it's a bit underwhelming compared to what I wanted, though.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft takes a stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been having a lot of Holmes brother feels lately.

“John? I’m thinking about making dinner. Do you want any?” Sherlock stood near John’s chair, flexing his fingers and toying with the buttons on his shirt. 

“Nope.” John’s gaze never strayed from the television, despite the fidgeting of the man in front of it.

“You haven’t really eaten much lately. Ever since you got cut. You should, ah. You should eat something.” Never before had Sherlock felt this alone in his own home. John had immediately flipped a switch after that night in the bathroom. He was little more than a stranger the last few days. An angry stranger. 

“You can take your dinner and fuck right off, Sherlock.” 

“Why have you been so distant and cold lately? You aren’t usually so --” 

“Not usually so what? So mean? Mean like running out on me when I was at my most vulnerable? I was bleeding and crying and on my knees, Sherlock. And you RAN. You stitched me up, poorly I might add, and then you ran. You do realize how I got these scars, don’t you? The TORTURE I was put through in your name? You pissed Sheehan off, and he came after ME. I have these because of you. So yeah. I’m a little mean right now. Because you do not deserve any kindness from me after what you did.” John’s face reddened as he spoke, his gestures dripping sarcasm and anger. He grabbed the remote and turned the volume up. Sherlock nodded once and walked into the kitchen. John heard him bump around for a minute before the front door opened and closed. He sighed and rubbed his forehead before clicking the tv off. 

This was getting ridiculous. He hadn’t set out to treat Sherlock this way. But he couldn’t forget the look in Sherlock’s eyes as he walked out. The way he left him there, alone in the freezing cold bathroom. Still bleeding, freshly stitched up, sobbing like his heart was breaking. He knew he’d built a wall surrounding everything, but he hadn’t expected Sherlock seeing the scars to knock such a big chunk loose. It had let a river of pain start flowing, and he needed to stop it. So he took his anger and his betrayal and used it as the mortar to build the wall back up. Stronger than before. Sherlock doesn’t do emotions, and John couldn’t let himself get hurt again. 

When he came back home, he promised he would stay. Was there any point to being here anymore though? He came back to keep Sherlock safe, but now he wasn’t sure he even cared anymore. Their relationship had always been fucked up and unhealthy, but it was okay for them. It was always what they needed. John was starting to understand everyone’s warnings. He remembered that very first case. Donovan had pegged it from day one. One day we’ll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there. 

The only question was, Sherlock had been the body once. Would John be next?

~~~~~

As soon as Sherlock walked into his brother’s office building, the secretary picked up the phone and hit a button. 

“Mr. Holmes? Your brother is here. Yes. Yes, I understand.” She hung up and gave him a perfunctory smile. “He’ll be expecting you.” 

“He’ll always be expecting me.” He opened the door and walked in, taking a seat across from Mycroft’s desk. “Mycroft.”

“Ahh, Sherlock. Why am I not surprised to see you here?” Mycroft turned his back and busied himself with a small silver teapot. 

“You kept in touch with John while I was away. Or at the very least, you poked and prodded from the sidelines a bit. But we all know you kept an eye on him. I’ll be frank; John is different. He’s different from the man who watched me jump off St. Bart’s. As loathe as I am to admit this, I think you know him better than I do right now. So I need your help. I did something foolish the other day, and I need to fix it.” Sherlock squared his shoulders and spoke to the desk. Mycroft turned around and tilted his head in a warm look that Sherlock missed. 

“Brother, there is nothing to be fixed because John is not broken. He is changed. Tragedy struck him and he changed. Even had it not happened, life moved forward in your absence. He would have still been a changed man upon your arrival.” Mycroft slid a cup of tea across the desk to Sherlock. Splash of milk, two sugars. The way he took it as a child. Sherlock blinked at it before looking up at Mycroft.

“You’ve grown sentimental in your old age.” He tipped the cup gingerly towards Mycroft before taking a sip. 

“Call it what you will, it still holds true. Nothing is broken. Some things have merely changed. Go home, Sherlock. Go home and relearn who John Watson is.” Mycroft reached across the desk and settled a hand on Sherlock’s forearm. For the first time in more years than either can count, he let it remain there. 

“I want a second opinion. Where’s Lestrade? His cologne is here, surely he is as well. Come out, come out, wherever you are. By which I mean come out of the bathroom. I can hear you. You’re very bad at hide and seek.” Sherlock turned to watch the man in question sheepishly join them with an embarrassed grin. 

“Ah. Well. Hello, Sherlock.” Greg stood a little behind and to the side of Sherlock’s chair as he looked back at Mycroft.

“Really, Mycroft? Shagging in your office? Such basal instincts you have. Now, it’s not often that I ask for help. So enjoy this while it lasts. What should I do about John?” Sherlock’s fingers tightened on the arms of his chair, Greg giving Mycroft a pointed look behind him. 

“I’ve spent our entire lives together cleaning up after you, Sherlock. I’ve done it out of love and loyalty. No, don’t laugh or scoff. It’s true. I love you, and I do what I can to ease your burdens. Even the ones of your own making. I shall do this no more. It is nigh time you learn to deal with your own messes. You shall suffer the consequences. Lestrade agrees with me, although he is quite capable of stating so himself.” Mycroft sat back in his chair, looking on Sherlock with sad eyes. 

“I know he agrees. The teapot has a very high polish, and I can see the faces he’s been making. This isn’t me saying the wrong thing to the wrong person or using cocaine again. This is JOHN we’re talking about! I can’t let this be how things end. I didn’t run off across the world for three years just to lose him after all.” 

“I’m going to say this one time, and one time only, Sherlock. I know what you did to John. Yes, I still have your place bugged, don’t act surprised. If there was ever a single moment where he needed you the most, it was that moment. It was also that moment you chose to act on your cowardice and run from him. Things are not beyond repair, but you had better tread carefully from here on out, brother. The ball, as they say, is in your court.” 

Sherlock stood, almost knocking his chair over with a snarl, and walked out the room. Mycroft leaned forward, arms on his desk and head in his hands. 

“You did the right thing, Mycroft. He needs to learn that what he does to people has repercussions. It’s gonna be okay, I promise.” Greg walked around behind his chair, rubbing his shoulders and back soothingly. 

“I fear this course of action will either bring Sherlock and I closer together after all these years… Or will have driven the final nail into the coffin. My brother has made many mistakes in his life, and I can only hope that he can come back from these last couple. May God have mercy on his soul.” He stood and silently wrapped his arms around Greg, burying his face in his neck and holding on tightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, shit's about to hit the fan. I've been promising that for a few chapters now, but this next chapter will probably be SUPER INTENSE WHOA WHAT.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to make things better, but it's always darkest before dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, kids. This is a long chapter. 3k! And we FINALLY get some Johnlock! That took longer than I thought it would, but I guess our boys aren't very quick on the uptake with each other. 
> 
> Many many thanks to the amazing janto321 for helping me edit this chapter. It was difficult to write. Both in content (I made myself cry) and in actually getting the words out. I definitely recommend any of her stories, as they're all rather lovely <3

John was asleep on the couch when Sherlock got home. Stretched out, left arm flopped over his head, right hand tucked into the waist of his jeans. He never understood that particular habit of napping men, but didn’t pay it much mind. For the first time since Sherlock came back, John had a look of peace about him. Sherlock sat cross legged on the coffee table and drank it in. The smooth lines of his face, mouth slightly agape. The gentle rise and fall of his chest. John radiated a warmth that almost reached Sherlock.

He watched John; his blogger, doctor, best friend, colleague. What WAS he anymore? He was so much more than half the rent. Somehow this short, tea-addicted ex-army doctor had limped into his life and knocked everything topsy-turvy. With a quiet chuckle, he thought about sending Mike Stamford a fruit basket. Or possibly asking him some hard questions. If he was able to tell that John and Sherlock would click so well, he might be able to tell where the fountain of youth or holy grail were hidden.

Somewhere along the line, Sherlock’s vision of John had changed. He had become the most important thing in Sherlock’s life, without him even realizing. The thought of John leaving, packing his bags and slamming the door behind him, made something fierce tighten in his chest. He had lived most of his life without John Watson in it, and he’d be damned before going back to that. John deserved a good man in his life, and Sherlock was trying. He was trying so hard to learn to be that man. It was slow going, and he wouldn’t openly admit it, but he loved the progress. Seeing the smiles he was starting to put on people’s faces made him.. happy. Happy and content. John came into his life and inspired him to be the kind of man he never knew he wanted to be.

Something shifted behind John’s eyes, and his brows pulled together. It was as if someone turned the heat off inside him. Shifting onto his side, he tucked his arms and legs in protectively before settling for a minute. Sherlock leaned forward, almost toppling off the table, unconsciously mirroring John’s facial expressions. When John started whimpering, he almost reached out to shake him. But he shifted again, his shirt pulling against his side, riding up over his stomach.

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes. I believe in Sherlock Holmes. I believe in Sherlock Holmes._

He snatched his hand back as if burned. Things didn’t work out so well the last time he touched John. Afraid of history repeating itself, he went to his room. At some point in his absence, John had moved several of his belongings into his room and the violin now stood guard over the skull in the corner. He grabbed the case and made his way to the usual window in the living room. Sparing a second to stroke the wood gently, he quickly tightened the bow and slid the rosin across it. Tuning the strings, he tucked it below his chin and began to play the same soft melody he always used to still John’s nightmares.

With a loud grunt, John folded himself into a tight ball on the couch before throwing himself into a crouch on the floor. His arms snapped to his head, wrapping around tightly.

“I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES! I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES! I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES!” Screaming so loudly his voice broke and wavered and warped almost beyond comprehension. Sherlock stopped playing, rendering a screech as he ran over to John. Tossing the violin carefully onto the carpet, he huddled next to John.

“John! JOHN!” The cords of John’s neck stood out as he screamed.

“I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES!” John was curling tightly into himself, joints popping audibly. Sherlock’s hands clenched in and out of nervous fists.

“JOHN! STOP IT! JOHN! Come on, come on, come on. JOHN, WHAT’S WRONG?” Sherlock ducked his head to look at John’s face. All he caught were quick glimpses of pure terror and hysteria. His screams devolved, becoming little more than primal noises as Sherlock pulled his phone out and quickly dialed Mycroft’s number. Tucking the phone between his shoulder and ear, his hands hovered near John. He wanted to touch him, to hold him tightly, to calm whatever storm was raging in his head.

“Sher-- What’s going on? Who’s screaming? Is that John?” Mycroft answered, concern pouring from him.

“I don’t know what’s happening, Mycroft! He was asleep and started having a nightmare so I played my violin because it usually calms him down but he just snapped and I don’t know but I broke him, I broke John! He’s broken now, I broke him! How do I… Help me! Please, help me, just help me!” Sherlock latched onto the lifeline of his brother’s voice.

“I’ll be right there. Just stay with him Sherlock. Don’t you dare leave him. Just stay right there next to him. I’ll bring Gregory.” The line went dead as Mycroft hung up. Sherlock tossed his phone onto the couch and tried to get John’s attention.

“John, John, please come back. Come back to me. I don’t know where you are. Don’t go where I can’t follow. John, come back to me, please. I’m begging you. I’m begging, John. I’ll be good, I’ll be so good. I’ll make you tea, and I’ll keep the toes out of the fridge. I’ll clean up my slides and I won’t screech my violin at 3 in the morning and ruin your dates. Just please come back to me, John.” As a whimper pried itself from his lips, Sherlock threw caution to the wind and pulled him tightly against his chest. He clawed and bit at Sherlock, but, despite the damage, Sherlock held on, words pouring from his mouth without thought.

Gradually, John stopped screaming and started sobbing. He may as well have kept screaming for all the intensity of the sobs. Pushing himself into Sherlock, he slowly brought his arms down from around his head and wrapped them around the taller man’s neck. Burying his face in Sherlock’s shoulder, he poured his heart and soul into those sobs. Everything he’d been holding back for two years. Every single bit of anger, sorrow, bitterness, everything. It all came flooding out in a torrent of screaming and tears. Sherlock fell silent and merely held John all the tighter.

It was at this moment the others arrived. Mycroft immediately picked up Sherlock’s violin and loosened the bow before placing them back in the case and snapping it closed. Greg stood there for a moment, pointedly averting his gaze from the pair. He heard Mrs. Hudson come in and went downstairs to meet her.

“Detective Inspector! What’s happened? I was out at the shops and got a call from Mrs. Thompson next door. She said there was a lot of screaming and yelling.” She looked up the stairs at the open door, but didn’t try to go up.

“I’m not sure. We, Mycroft and I, got a call from Sherlock saying that John had..” He trailed off, not sure how to explain or what to say.

“Oh dear.. this is about… Oh. We were afraid this would happen. He never really dealt with any of it, did he?” She fluttered a hand over her heart and gave Greg a sad smile. “Go take care of him, dear. He needs you.”

“We will. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.” Greg nodded and gave her a quick hug before hurrying back up the stairs. Back in the apartment, Mycroft gestured towards John. He was now sitting on the couch, slumped forward and leaning heavily against Sherlock.

“Gregory, if you’d sit with John for a moment. I need to speak with Sherlock.” John jerked his head up and looked at Mycroft, then at the small case in his hand. He stiffened and looked at Sherlock, nudging him and nodding toward Mycroft.

“Go. I’ll be fine with Greg.” John gave him a watery smile as he stood up. Greg took his place on the couch and bumped their shoulders together.

“You alright? I heard, ah… I heard you in the background. Mycroft put the call on speakerphone.”

“I don’t know. I can guess at what happened though. He started playing his violin.” John sighed and scrubbed his hands over his face.

“Fuck. Hasn’t he played since he came back?”

“Not that I’ve heard. Maybe he’s played while I’ve been out? I moved it to his room. Maybe he thought I didn’t want to listen anymore.” They lapsed into companionable silence on the couch, their shoulders still touching.

~~~~~

“Sherlock. Are you okay?” Mycroft shifted his weight from one foot to the other as Sherlock kept looking back at John. Although he and Greg weren’t saying much, he seemed to be doing better.

“I’m fine, Mycroft. John’s the one who..”

“John isn’t the one covered in blood right now.” Mycroft pulled Sherlock into the bathroom and pointed in the mirror. Sherlock took one look and shut the door behind him.

“I end up covered in blood on about half of my cases, and most of the time it isn’t even mine. You know this. What’s going on, Mycroft?” Sherlock leaned back against the door, pinning Mycroft under his gaze.

“This is for you, should you want it. John knows what is inside, and he has given me permission to give this to you. It is everything we have on John’s capture and torture. There is nothing that I or Greg know that isn’t in here.” Mycroft handed the case to Sherlock, who held it to his chest in shaking hands.

“Everything?”

“Everything, Sherlock. Police reports, photos, hospital records, and.. video footage. Seems Sheehan recorded it all.” Mycroft pursed his lips, taking a step closer to his brother.

“Video…” Sherlock moved to the toilet and sat down, opening the case and pulling out a stack of DVDs. He set them carefully on the counter and removed a stack of photos next. He clapped his hand to his mouth, willing away the urge to vomit. The top photo alone was almost more than he could handle. It had to have been right after John’s rescue. He was more bruise than skin, his right eye swollen shut and bottom lip split open. His nose sat at an angle. The worst part, though, was his chest. He thought the healed scars were bad. Seeing the fresh wounds, the charred and oozing skin, was almost too much for him. He dumped the rest of the stack back into the box and leaving it on the counter. Rushing into the living room, still clutching the photo, his eyes ran over John. Ensuring he was okay. John, for his part, took one look at the photo before heaving a deep sigh through his nose and standing. Sherlock hurried over and had his hands everywhere. Shoulders, chest, neck, arms. Making sure John was indeed in one piece and home safe.

“Sherlock. I’m.. While I can’t say I’m okay right now, I can tell you that I will be eventually. I heard Mrs. Hudson downstairs earlier. She told Greg that I never really dealt with any of it, and she’s right. From the day they pulled me out of that basement, I resumed my routine. The only people who know what happened are in this room. All Mrs. Hudson knows is that I was kidnapped and beaten up. I… decided to spare her the details. After you jumped, I didn’t want to let her know how close she was to losing both of us, you know?” As John spoke, he quietly unbuttoned his shirt and slid it down his arms to reveal his scars. Taking the picture from Sherlock’s grasp, he held it up next to him. Bloody marks in the photo compared to neat white lines on his chest. Sherlock put a hand, fingers splayed, over John’s heart and dug the pads of his fingertips in gently. He could feel the rhythm, beating a steady tattoo against his hand.

“This shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have let it happen.” Sherlock’s voice was barely a whisper, the words floated on his breath where only John could hear them. Mycroft emerged from the bathroom, closed case in hand as John picked his shirt up and slid it back on.

“You’re right. It shouldn’t have happened. But it did, and I survived. Guess what? You’ll survive too. I know the videos are in there but I haven’t seen them. I know Greg watched them though. For his report down at the station. Sherlock, I want us to watch them together. We both need to see them. And I can’t watch them alone.” Sherlock nodded while Mycroft threw a surprised glance at Greg. John took Sherlock’s hand and lead him back to his bedroom.

“I didn’t know you watched them.” Mycroft sat on the couch, settling a hand on Greg’s knee.

“I had to. Like John said, it was for my report. We all know John down at the station. It didn’t seem right to leave it up to some random kid in forensics to watch it all. I owed it to John to at least watch what he went through. He told me it was okay if I couldn’t distance myself enough to do it… But I had to. It didn’t seem right…” Greg trailed off, shrugging once his words failed him.

“I must confess; in this instance you are the greater man. Under normal circumstances, these things don’t bother me horribly. However, in John’s case, it felt like I was punishing myself while watching. John was still under my surveillance when he was captured. I should have been keeping a closer eye on him. I couldn’t watch the videos. I’ve never had much of a stomach for self-flagellation.” Mycroft spoke quietly, turning in his seat. Greg smiled and leaned forward, capturing his lips in a tender kiss.

~~~~~

John took the case and after fishing out the DVDs, left them on top of the tv. Sherlock was looking at John’s bed, fingering the buttons of his suit jacket.

“Sherlock, sit down. We need to talk before going any further.” John sat on the edge of his bed, Sherlock moving to sit on the other side.

“Conversations beginning with ‘we need to talk’ never go well.” Sherlock shifted on the bed, leaning back against the headboard with his legs stretched out in front of him. John huffed in amusement and joined him.

“Well, hopefully this one will. Earlier, when I was… yeah. It felt so real, Sherlock. I was BACK there. Back in that basement with him. I could feel him branding me.” John spoke quickly, rubbing his hands over his knees.

“Do you know why.. what triggered you?” Sherlock continued to pluck at his buttons, threatening to pop one off.

“Your violin. He uh.. had violin music playing constantly. Said he wanted to ruin my belief in you. That’s also why he chose that particular phrase. But Sherlock, I need you to understand that watching these videos will be hard. I don’t know how I’ll react. I don’t know how you’ll react. I just need you to understand this.”

“John. You went through this all at once. You lived it. The least I can do is watch them with you.” Sherlock glanced over at John, trying to give a reassuring smile.

“I heard you, you know. When you were talking to me. It helped bring me back. I could hear you begging me not to go away.” John shifted a bit, turning towards Sherlock.

“Oh! I.. uh. I panicked, it doesn’t..” Sherlock floundered, struggling for words until John leaned in toward him.

“Sherlock, I’ve gone through a lot in your name. I have your name branded into my skin. I don’t know what’ll happen between us after this. Whether you’ll be able to be around me. Just seeing the healed scars is almost too much for you. In case.. Just in case we can’t come back from this, I want you to know that I love you. Not just as a friend and colleague, although that’s certainly true too. I’m in love with you. I know you don’t do relationships, and you’re married to your work and all that. But I figured since we already have a lot of messy emotions on the table right now, I may as well add one more while the damage is being done. Whatever happens, I don’t want to live the rest of my life wondering what would have happened if I’d never told you. So.. Yeah. There’s that.” John swung his legs off the edge of the bed and started to sit up when Sherlock reached out and grabbed his arm. John turned around in time to have his lips captured in a light, timid kiss. He pulled back and tilted his head.

“I don’t know what’ll happen after this either. But I do know that I’m not going anywhere. Whatever we need to deal with after this, we will do it together. While I don’t know what I feel for you, I do know that it is most certainly more than friendship. I’ve never done the love thing before, John. It’s just too messy and uncertain. Too many variables. But if there was ever a man or woman I was going to try this with, it would be you. That first night, I only made such a point of saying I was married to my work because no one had ever piqued my interest as fast as you did. It’s like you came along and started teaching me a new language. One that I am very interested in becoming fluent in.” John smiled and tipped his head forward, pulling Sherlock into another deeper kiss. John pulled away again and, looking at the stack of DVDs waiting for them, heaved a sigh.

“I guess only we would start a relationship with videos of me being tortured. Shall we?” He got off the bed, popped the first one into the tray, and hit play.

Grainy, garbled screams filled the room.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took way longer to write than it should have, and is pretty long to boot. It's 5k! It was hard to write for several reasons, and I made myself cry a few times. There is graphic depictions of violence here, and while I'm editing the tags to include this, I just wanted to give you guys a heads up. 
> 
> Also, my formatting might be a bit confusing. Since John and Sherlock are watching John on the tv, I've italicized the video bits. Hope it makes sense and isn't too much of a confusing mess!

John hit pause as soon as the video started. On screen, he was standing in the middle of a dimly lit basement. His wrists were handcuffed and looped through a chain over a pipe running across the ceiling, almost forcing him to his toes.

Closing his eyes, he rubbed his wrists together as Sherlock leaned into him lightly. “We do not have to watch this, John. Only if, when, you are ready.”

“No. I need to see this. And so do you.” John pursed his lips, eyes glued to the screen. After a moment’s hesitation, he clicked play.

They watched John rattle his chains against the pipe before flexing his arms. His body lifted off the ground and he bounced his weight a bit. He lowered himself back down when the pipe held firm.. Turning this way and that, he looked around the room as best he good. When he turned, a shock of red over his temple caused Sherlock to stiffen.

“It gets worse.” John shifted a little closer.

“Do you remember all of what happened?” Sherlock kept his eyes on the screen, watching John rattle his chains and take in his surroundings.

“Mostly. It gets a little fuzzy towards the end, but.. yeah.” John shrugged and all light left his eyes as a man entered the screen.

 ---

_“John Watson. We finally meet.” The man stood directly in front of John, his arms behind his back. John planted his feet, stretching his shoulders and pulling on his wrists._

_“Who are you and what do you want with me?” John bared his teeth, pulling on the chains again._

_“Straight to the point, I like that in a man. Names aren’t important, but I think I can let you know why I’m interested in you.” The man grinned, shark’s teeth gleaming in the light, and brought his fist squarely into John’s gut._

Sherlock flinched, his abs contracting as if he himself had been dealt the blow. John sat still. On the screen, the only indicators of his pain were a muffled grunt and his head dropping forward.

_“I see you know how to take a punch! Attaboy. Not that I expected any less from a Captain.” The man laughed._

_“Not the first time I’ve ever taken a punch. Won’t be the last.” John brought his head back up, eyes trained squarely on Sheehan’s face._

_“And I bet being such close friends with Sherlock earned you a few punches as well. Never was very good at interacting with people, was he?” Sheehan tilted his head, speaking through a coy smirk._

_“Sherlock Holmes was ten times the man you’ll ever be.” John spat in his face, his chin jutting upwards firmly. With a snarl, Sheehan reached out and grabbed a fistful of John’s hair, wrenching his head back mercilessly._

_“Might wanna show a little respect, John. You and I, we aren’t so very different. I think we could even have a nice little working relationship. If you can prove yourself.” Sheehan’s fist drove into John’s face again and again._

_\---_

Sherlock scrambled for the remote and hit fast forward when he heard the sickening crunch of John’s nose breaking. “Oh, John. How could I...?” Sherlock reached out, slowly taking John’s hand in his own. John squeezed back gently.

“Let’s just get through this.” John nodded towards the screen. Sherlock hit play and immediately wished he hadn’t.

 

 ---

_John was slumped forward as much as possible with his arms still chained. One look at the odd angle the left one sat at told Sherlock it was dislocated. Blood dripped from his nose into the small puddle on the floor. He gave a few great hacking coughs, and spit out a mouthful of blood with a groan._

_Sheehan, stood in front of him, clucked his tongue and laughed. “Still such a soldier. They trained you well. But as a doctor, you gotta be keeping track of your injuries. Estimating how your recovery will go. Hopefully there’ll be a recovery. I could just leave you as a broken up corpse, you know. Maybe I’m curious about anatomy, hm? Maybe I’ll chop you up and see what made the late John Watson tick.” He picked up a length of pipe and lightly tossed it from hand to hand. About the thickness of his thumb, it made a neat little thwacking noise as he caught it with a wicked grin._

_“You can tell a lot about a man by the way he handles a phallic object.” John spat at Sheehan, a spray of blood covering his shirt. Sheehan snarled and whirled the pipe through the air. The crunch as it made contact with John’s forearm made Sherlock flinch._

 

 ---

He reached for John’s arm and surveyed it. There was a faint little scar on the outside of his wrist. Definitely not there before.

“A plate and two pins. I was lucky that the loss of dexterity and fine motor control was minimal. I mean, it ended my career as a surgeon, but I’m alive. So I guess it wasn’t a huge price to pay. Most simple procedures don’t require as much finesse as surgery does, so Sarah switched me to general practice. I lost the operating room, but now I have a nicer office.” John shrugged and stretched his fingers out before making a tight fist. Sherlock brought his hand up and placed a gentle kiss on the scar before they turned back to the screen. John hit fast forward again.

 

 ---

_“Got a surprise for ya, John. You’re really gonna like it, so don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” Sheehan winked dramatically and left the room. John hung limply, barely moving. He came back a moment later, pushing in a cart with a tv and dvd player on it. He left it next to a chair that had already been situated off to the side. “I thought we could watch a movie! You should have a seat though, man. You been standing for what, two days now? Here.” He cackled and pulled a key from his pocket before reaching above John’s head. As soon as the handcuffs came free, John dropped like dead weight to the floor. Sheehan shook his head and dragged him bodily to the chair before unbuttoning John's shirt.  A thick leather strap was cinched around his chest, with narrower ones on his wrists and legs. A final one across his forehead kept him in a rigid, upright position. Satisfied that he was in place, Sheehan repositioned the tv directly in front of the chair. “Got a really good one for you tonight, John. I’ve watched it a lot myself. It was a present from Jim, you know. Oh, he couldn’t give it to me in person. Sherlock saw to that. But still. Things were in motion, so we all still got it. Ah, it’s a bit of a silent film, so let’s get some music up in here.” Sheehan pulled a small stereo from the bottom of the cart. He pushed a button and soft violin music filled the room._

_“I don’t care to see anything Jim gave you. Fuck that guy.” Now that he was strapped in and Sheehan had moved, John and Sherlock could see how swollen John’s face was._

_“See, I thought you might say that. But c’mon, Johnny. We were both soldiers, and both took our orders like good boys. You found Sherlock when the army ditched you. Let’s see just how much you believe in him. Do you believe in him enough to wear it for the rest of your life? I believed in Jim and look where I am now. I’m a soldier, John. Just like you. I was meant to serve a greater purpose. Where am I now? What do I have now? We both lost our direction. You lost Sherlock, and I lost Jim. You’re just like me, John. Just like me.” With that, he picked up an iron rod and a blow torch. On the end of the rod was another wide piece of metal. Sheehan turned the tv on, and an image of Sherlock flickered on screen. He hit play and Sherlock started talking to Moriarty. It was taken from a distance, going by the shaky camera work and lack of audio. But John knew what he was watching. He’d watched as it happened, only from the street. It was Sherlock’s fall._

_“Fuck you. FUCK YOU. I am not watching this.” John struggled to turn his head away from the screen, but was held firmly in place. Sheehan chuckled and lit the small blowtorch. When John swiveled his eyes in his direction and saw him heating the end of it. He finally recognized it as a brand. He could see the backwards letters as they glowed red hot. With a sinking feeling, he knew that while he couldn’t read them now… He would be able to read them for a very long time after this. He watched as Sherlock stepped up onto the ledge. The violin music continued. A sad melody rising and falling as his coat fluttered behind him, a silent flag to his sacrifice. Sheehan had the brand at the ready, and the second Sherlock dropped his phone and jumped, he pressed the brand to John’s chest with cruel pressure. John yelled through gritted teeth at the searing heat. Sheehan pulled back and admired his handiwork. He fished around on the cart for a mirror and held it up so John could see._

_Though backwards in the reflection, John had no trouble reading them this time. In blackened, charred letters were the words “I believe in Sherlock Holmes”. He stared at the reflection, blinking rapidly. Breathing heavily through his nose, his chest heaved and muscles twitched from the damage and pain. The video footage had flickered as Sherlock dropped out of frame, only to start back from the very beginning._

_“Do you believe in him now? He jumped so easily. Left you so easily. Just spread his wings and flew away, didn’t he?” Sheehan leaned down to look him in the eye, pushing his palm down on the fresh brand. John grunted, but held firm. Stared back with fire in his eyes._

_“I will believe in Sherlock Holmes until the day I die.” John panted slightly as Sheehan ground into the brand again._

_“Well then. Shouldn’t be long now.” He heated the metal again, pressing a second brand perfectly in line with the first as Sherlock once again stepped off the ledge. “Fly away, little birdie.”_

_“Fuck you!” He yeed again as his already sensitive skin was sizzled again._

_“Oh come now. If you really felt so strongly about him, wouldn’t you be able to handle a little pain in his honor? Or did he really mean so little to you? Maybe a third one. Just to make sure, you know?” Sheehan laughed as John went pale. Clicked the blowtorch back on and waggled his eyebrows at him. The red hot brand was pressed into John’s skin a third time, completing a row just below his collarbones. He released a primal scream as Sheehan grinned and dug in a little deeper._

 

 ---

John paused the video again, failing to conceal the disdain and disgust on his face. “Ugh. I didn’t enjoy that when it happened, and I don’t enjoy it now.” He idly rubbed at his chest, stopping when the stillness sunk in. “Sherlock? Are you okay?”

Sherlock was silent. Blankly staring at the screen and the frozen image of John’s scream. He lurched a few times before leaning over the side of the bed and retching. John reached over and rubbed his back in slow, comforting circles. The sound of messy splattering had him closing his eyes and grimacing. “Yes. Yes, I am fine. Let’s just continue.”

John hit play, but the dvd stopped after a few seconds. While Sherlock wiped at his mouth with the corner of a sheet, John got up to switch out discs. He got back into bed and scooted in until he and Sherlock were pressed together from shoulder to hip, their legs a tangle of limbs. John hit play again and immediately stiffened when he realized which part they were at.

 

 ---

_John was upright again, his hands cuffed to the ceiling as before. His shirt was gone, the fresh brands red and angry. His entire body was as limp as it could go in his forced position. What made him hesitate to let Sherlock watch was the wet patch stretching from his crotch all the way down his left leg to a puddle on the ground. The same music as before was still playing, and Sheehan adjusted the volume a little higher._

_“Look at yourself! You pissed your pants? Couldn’t even hold it. We have a fucking bucket, John. But if you want to act like an animal, I guess I’ll just have to treat you like one. You know what happens to animals when they misbehave, John? They get the stick. I’d tell you to hold on, but obviously muscle control isn’t your thing right now.” Sheehan grabbed a wooden dowel, about as thick around as his little finger. He swished it through the air, littering John’s sides with quick blows. He flinched with each one, but managed to remain silent. Until Sheehan shifted and started whipping the dowel over the brandings on his chest. John started screaming. High pitched, panicking screams as he struggled to get away from the blows. Sheehan laughed and whipped him all the harder. He landed a couple blows across his belly, red welts springing to life in their wake._

_“Stop! Stop, please!” John grunted between blows. His voice was raw with exhaustion and pain, and he had a couple days worth of stubble on his face. Sheehan shook his head before delivering one last strike and holding the stick where it landed._

_“See what happens when you ask so nicely? Manners, John. They’re important. But you’re learning, so let’s have a treat since you took your punishment so well. I’d hate to see you suffer too much. Let’s have another movie night! Since we watched the last one so many times, I looked around a bit and found these. Nothing special, but I thought you might like them more than the other one. A sequel, you might say. And this one has audio!” As he spoke, he unlocked John from his cuffs and strapped him back into the chair. Taking the brand off of the cart, he clicked the blowtorch to life. John stiffened, the muscles in his chest contracting and twitching in fearful anticipation. Sheehan clicked the tv on and some security footage popped up. From the looks of the clerk’s uniform and general surroundings, they were in a train station. A woman approached the window._

_“Hello! Can I get a ticket for the 4:30 to Paris, please?” She smiled and dug in her purse, coming out a moment later with her wallet. The clerk nodded and started typing at his computer with a smile. As he asked her for her ID, John blinked._

_“I don’t get it. Wha--” John was cut off by Sheehan smacking a hand to his chest._

_“Quiet! We’re almost to the good part!” He started heating up the brand again, John squirming to try and get away from him. It was fruitless, and he turned his eyes back to the screen just as the clerk handed the woman a ticket and she walked away. The man who stepped to the window after her, however, made John’s blood run cold. Shaggy ginger hair threw him, but John knew those cheekbones. When he spoke, he knew the voice. Could recognize it, pick it out of a crowd. Sherlock. It had to be Sherlock._

_“I need one ticket for the next train to Dublin please.” A very well faked Irish accent tumbled from his lips, but John knew the deep timbre of that voice. He was so engrossed in seeing Sherlock that he didn’t notice Sheehan reaching towards him until the searing pain of another brand stabbed him in the chest. Right below the first one._

_“Oops, I forgot to tell you to get ready. Silly me. I’ll warn you next time.” Sheehan giggled to himself and stroked the fresh brand as John squeezed his eyes shut, yelling at the pain._

_“Oh, you son of a bitch. What was the point of this one? That could have been taken any time. Maybe even before I ever KNEW Sherlock!” John hissed, his words dripping poison._

_“Ah, see. I thought of that. For one, there are the timestamps on the video footage. Right there in the corner. But those can be faked. It’d be harder to fake, say, the date on the ticket. Right?” picked up the remote and paused the video. He hit a few buttons and the image magnified. Scrolling to the ticket, John could make out the date printed in large block letters. It was about two weeks prior to John’s kidnapping._

_“Sherlock is dead. This is just a man who looks like him. Anyone can have prominent cheekbones and a deep voice. I watched him jump off a building. I saw his head all smashed in. Saw the blood. Felt his pulse. There was none. I’m a doctor, you know. Pretty sure I can tell a dead body.” John let the sarcasm and annoyance drip from his voice. Sheehan rolled his eyes and planted the brand on his chest. Dead center over his sternum. He gave a long, low groan at the sudden intrusion._

_“Watch. Your. Tone. I told you earlier, John. Manners are important. Maybe that is Sherlock. Maybe it isn’t. Exactly HOW certain are you that he was actually dead. I seem to remember you being pretty out of it. So easy to miss something when your focus is somewhere else, you know?” He tossed the brand onto the floor, the rattle echoing around the room. He set the image on the screen back to normal magnification, the (maybe?) Sherlock reaching for the ticket. Sheehan turned and walked out, waving his hand and leaving John to stare at the man on the screen._

 

 ---

“That was how you found out I was still alive.” It wasn’t a question. Sherlock stated the truth he had just seen. He turned and looked at John, who nodded once before shrugging.

“Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I was so certain you were dead. But then he showed me that video, and a few more like it. Just CCTV footage, or sometimes stills, of you in various places in various disguises. I wanted to believe that you were dead, but the evidence was stacking up otherwise, you know? It was easier to keep believing you were dead. Because as soon as I started thinking he was telling me the truth, then I started hoping that you somehow knew I was there and would come rescue me.” John’s voice dropped almost to a whisper as Sherlock’s gaze bore into him.

“Rescue you… Oh, John. If I’d had any idea the situation you were in, I would have come running. Mycroft barely knew where I was at any time. He hardly knew I was alive at all, let alone having any way to reach me. That is no excuse, however. I should never have left in the first place.” Sherlock gripped John’s hand again, squeezing almost to the point of pain.

“If you’d never left, you’d be visiting three graves right now. It’s better that you left, Sherlock. We both went through hell, but at least this way we’re both alive.” John leaned back into the pillows and cast his eyes to the ceiling.

“I never wanted you to get hurt because of me. I left to protect you from that…” Sherlock worried his bottom lip briefly before looking away from John.

“Sherlock. What I went through down there was hard. Very hard. I’m not going to pretend otherwise. Especially after I started believing that you were still alive. I got the POW training in the war. I was a soldier and I got shot. I know how to handle physical pain. I’m not surprised that I got kidnapped and tortured. It happened back in Afghanistan, and then it happened again here. But what really hurt was the thought that you left thinking I hated you. I called you a machine. You left trying to make me think you were a fake. I lost you once only to get you back. Almost wasn’t worth it though. What was the point in getting you back, learning you were still alive, only to lose you again because some guy wanted to kill me? The last message I could ever want to tell you, and someone else was writing it.” John spoke to the ceiling, not able to bring himself to look at Sherlock.

“Last message…? I don’t understand.” Sherlock fiddled with the hem of his coat again. This conversation had him in over his head on so many levels. He wanted to run again. To find a safe space. Retreat into his mind palace and categorize all this new information. John needed him here, though. Greg and Mycroft, waiting for them out in the living room, needed him too. They all needed Sherlock to learn this stuff. If he and John were going to have any sort of future, he needed to know all of his past. Especially if it was a harsh past that he helped form. John brought him out of his musing with a brittle, hollow laugh.

“I believe in Sherlock Holmes.” John sat up and gave Sherlock a small smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He nudged his shoulder a bit. “Should we watch some more, or call it good? It honestly just goes on like this for awhile. He shows me videos of you, and I get a brand for each one. There’s some more punching, and a bit more of the cane. But that’s it for the actual physical damage. I want to find the end though. When I got out. We both need to see this. Or else I’ll end up having a whammy of a nightmare tonight.” He tried to force some life and humor into his voice, and it was even a little genuine. He had made it through these videos better than he thought he would. Couldn’t say the same for Sherlock, but he was learning all of this for the first time, after all.

“I think.. I think I’d like to see you get out now.” Sherlock had a grey shadow to his pallor, so John nodded and popped the last disc from the stack in the player. As the video started, he regretted skipping what he had. They had slowly watched John get progressively more beat up before, whereas now, watching the end, John was in the worst shape. This was the John from the photo Sherlock had seen earlier. The camera was different as well. Instead of a fixed point, it was moving around. Sheehan was holding the camera.

 

 ---

_“C’mon, John. Smile pretty for me. The camera loves you.” John was slumped over on the ground, no longer chained to the ceiling. A foot reached into frame and roughly kicked John onto his back. His right eye was swollen shut and leaking a blood-tinged liquid. His nose sat at an angle, and his bottom lip was split open wide enough to obviously need several stitches. His chest, back, and sides were covered with the brands that now adorned current day John’s skin. His broken arm formed a sickening purple-red curve as it flopped across the floor. It was swollen to a uniform thickness the whole way through. John groaned and rolled onto his side. It took a few tries, but he managed to pitch himself up onto his knees. Sheehan cackled with delight. “Look at you! You’re broken into pieces, you piss yourself on a regular basis, and you puke up anything I try to feed you. Only took me several days, but I think I’ve finally done it. I’ve finally broken Sherlock’s favorite toy. No wonder you lasted so long with him! You’re a tough nut to crack. I mean, you’re a decorated war hero and all that. I figured you’d be a challenge, but come on! You took that like a champ, and then some! Give me a pretty little smile.” John snarled, his lips parting to reveal a couple missing teeth. The remaining ones were stained red with blood._  

_“Fuck. You. Just kill me already. What are you even waiting for? Get it over with.” John’s back bent, his body slumping over itself as he fought to stay upright. He was rewarded with more laughter._

_“Oh, please. I’m not going to kill you. That’d be doing you far too big of a favor. But I might return you, get a newer model. What with you being so broken and no fun to play with anymore.” Sheehan shrugged, the camera flashing to the blood stained ceiling for a second before focusing on John again. He had started crawling toward the tv cart. Using his good arm, he managed to pull himself straighter up on his knees and tried to grab at a bloody knife._

_“Well if you won’t do the honors…” John’s words were slurring worse and worse each time he spoke. He couldn’t get a grip on the knife, just managed to smack at it a few times with a limp and bloody hand as he leaned forward. His head rested on the smooth metal surface of the cart, and Sheehan lowered the camera as he walked over, catching the lower half of John’s body as he shakily stood up._

_“Don’t be silly, John. You think I’m gonna let you kill yourself? Just because nobody wants you anymore, that doesn’t mean you have to throw yourself away. Not nearly fun enough for me.” Sheehan’s arm came into frame and reached toward the knife. John was faster. An animal growl and he quickly and clumsily fisted the knife and spun. John came into frame just as a thick spray of blood covered his face and the camera dropped to the floor. A gurgling was heard, and a second pair of legs scrambled on the floor as a puddle of blood grew beneath them. John dropped to his knees before falling forward, the knife clattering across the floor. After several minutes of John watching Sheehan bleed out, a tapping was heard. As it approached, a pair of polished black shoes and the bottom of an umbrella came into frame. John’s eyes rolled towards them before he turned his head and stared up._

_“Fucking took you long enough.” John’s voice grew fainter as the person bent down and picked up the camera. A man, around John’s age but taller, more military in style, lay besides John with a pulpy mess of a throat. He still clutched at his neck weakly while his eyes rolled around, focusing on nothing. Men flooded into the room, surrounding John and shouting medical jargon at each other. A few more pulled Sheehan off frame and two gunshots were heard in quick succession. The camera turned around and Mycroft was seen for a few seconds before the screen went blank._

 

 ---

“That was not the ending I expected.” Sherlock looked even worse off than before, and he threw up again as soon as the video ended. When he turned back towards John, he was wearing a look of pride and happiness though; he had survived with gusto. John was sitting up as straight as he could on the bed, staring ahead with the emptiest look that Sherlock had ever seen. He reached out and laid a hand on his arm, John’s skin cold and clammy to the touch. Despite otherwise having completely shut down, Sherlock noted the tears in his eyes. As soon as he looked at Sherlock, however, the dam broke. Latching onto him, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and sobbed. Being clung to hard enough to hurt, he wrapped his arms back around John and held him close. For the first time that day, he had absolutely no urge to run away and hide. He had yearned for a safe space earlier, and as threatened as it might have been in that moment, he had found it there in John’s arms.

“Oh god, Sherlock. I could feel it. The entire time we were watching those, I could feel everything he did to me. Every old injury. I don’t know how I survived. How? I knew you weren’t coming to save me. I didn’t know ANYONE was coming for me. I thought they’d find a decomposed body in a few years.” John mumbled between sobs and gulping breaths.

“I promise you, John, right here. From now until the end of our days together, I will always find you. I will keep you safe and I will find you. You survived because you are strong. You are a soldier and you are strong. Nothing has killed you yet, and only Death himself will greet you when you are a very old man who has lived a very long life.” Sherlock squeezed John harder before rubbing his back as the tears continued to fall. It felt like John was going to fall apart from the force of them.

“I want you to be in that life with me, Sherlock.” John’s crying started to slow down as he cuddled in next to the man beside him.

“We’ve gone through too much for each other. I don’t think I could ever let you go now, John. When I first met you, I didn’t know how to hang on. Now I don’t know how to let go.” Sherlock tucked John’s head in under his chin and held him.

“Don’t let go. Never let go, Sherlock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to end on some schmoop because gee willickers, Batman! I needed it. This is honestly the end for most of the pain, though. There are maybe 2 or 3 chapters left to go and then this story will told. 
> 
> I was writing this story on a modified word count for NaNoWriMo (24k instead of 50k), and I crossed the finish line with this chapter!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft finally deals with some things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving, American darlings! Happy Thursday night/Friday morning, NonAmerican darlings!

Greg and Mycroft sat together on the couch, staring silently at the far wall as they listened to the muffled sounds from the bedroom. Greg squeezed his eyes shut every time he could pick out a noise. He may have only watched the videos once, but they stayed with him. Something told him they would for the rest of his life. 

“Perhaps I should make some tea. I’m sure we would both welcome the distraction.” Mycroft stood and quietly made this way through the kitchen. Greg watched as he worked with a neat precision. He clicked the kettle on before setting out two cups on two saucers with two spoons and two teabags. When the water boiled, he filled the cups and Greg stood to join him. Both men hesitated when they heard someone throwing up. 

“Should I check on them?” Greg turned towards John’s room, but Mycroft shook his head.

“No.” Mycroft set the tea on either side of the kitchen table and sat down. “We shouldn’t intrude.” 

“Mm. You’re right.” Greg sat down with a nod, taking a sip of tea. “So, how’s work? Avert any wars lately?” 

“Nothing of great importance. It’s been fortuitous in giving me more time to focus on our current predicament.” Mycroft gave a tight lipped smile before thoroughly studying the contents of his cup.

“Ah. Things have been good down at the Yard too. No one’s done anything too stupid, although the drunk tank is full as usual.” Greg slouched back in his chair, throwing an arm over the back. Mycroft glanced up at him and sighed, a bit of tension draining from him. 

“There will always be people who tend to enjoy their drink a little too much, I suppose.” Mycroft gave a soft but genuine chuckle as Greg grinned. 

“Some of my best stories come from dealing with drunk people. There was this one time, just after I’d joined the force, this guy comes into the Yard and --” Greg stopped, furrowing his brow as he and Mycroft both turned their heads towards John’s room. One of them was crying, and it sounded like John. “And I think this might be our cue to leave.. I’m not sure about you, but I could definitely use a drink or three after today. Back to mine?” He stood up, dumping the remainder of his tea down the sink before retrieving his coat and sliding it on. Mycroft’s eyes never left him. 

“It couldn’t hurt, I guess. I can have one of my people pick us up.” Mycroft pulled out his phone, but Greg reached into a pocket and jingled his keys. 

“Nope. I drove. So I’ll give you a lift to and from, when you’re ready.” He handed Mycroft his own jacket and umbrella before heading to the entryway. Mycroft took one last look around the flat before shutting the door, making sure to lock it behind him. 

Once in the car, Greg immediately cranked the heater up and turned the radio on low. Humming along under his breath, he pulled out and braved the London streets. “Sometimes I wish I could drive one of the squad cars all the time. Flash my lights and siren and get wherever I’m going very quickly. None of this traffic bullshit.” 

Mycroft made a noncommittal sound and watched the passing buildings. He wore the haunted look of a guilty man, and he wore it well. “I know that look, and I’ll have none of it in my car. Nothing that happened is your fault. You’ve gotta know that.” Greg reached over and settled a hand on Mycroft’s knee, squeezing gently. 

“He was taken in a black car. Exactly like the ones I send out to collect people. He thought he’d be talking to me, so he went willingly. My underhanded tactics almost cost John his life.” Mycroft barely flinched at the contact, staring at Greg’s hand. 

“He was taken by a criminal. No one’s to blame here, Mycroft. You know as well as I do that this was just a very unfortunate situation. Nothing more. Nothing less. 

Besides, it’s in the past now. He’s been back, safe and sound, for two years.” Despite the soothing tone of his voice, Mycroft only stared out the window in silence until they pulled into the parking lot of Greg’s building. 

As soon as they got inside, Greg went to the kitchen and returned with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. Mycroft sat on the edge of the couch, fingering the handle of his umbrella while Greg poured them each a generous glass and settled next to him.

“To John Watson. May the skeletons in his closet crumble to dust at his feet.” They clinked glasses, Greg taking a generous swallow as Mycroft neatly drained his. 

“I could have lost Sherlock forever.” Mycroft stared through the bottom of the glass. 

“Lost Sherlock? John’s the one who got tortured.” Greg turned towards him, brows furrowed.

“I almost let the most important person in his life get killed. He’d have never forgiven me and I’d have lost everything, Greg. I imagine he’d have started using again.”   
“There’s no point in beating yourself up over what-ifs. We didn’t lose John. That’s all that matters.” 

“Yes, but what would it have done to Sherlock if --”

“‘What would it have done’?” Greg interrupted. “Look at what it DID do to John! I care about Sherlock too, but right now I’m more concerned about John’s well-being in all this.”

Mycroft leaned his umbrella against the wall and began pacing the room. “It took me too long to realize he’d been taken. I had.. other issues at hand. Sherlock only ever kept in tentative contact with me; we agreed that it’d be safer for both of us that way. The day Sheehan took John, Sherlock had called. Asked if I had any medical contacts in Egypt. He sounded more than half dead, and although I wouldn’t tell him, I was scared.. By the time I got Sherlock sorted, Anthea told me we’d lost track of John.” 

“Fuck. What happened after that?” Greg sat forward, hands between his knees as his empty glass dangled from his fingertips.

“It was easy enough to find him via my cameras. The car was waiting for him right in front of his own home. We lost track of him once they left the city, and it took a few days to find him. I dropped the ball, Gregory. I let him get taken. I couldn’t find him quickly enough. I didn’t even know who Sheehan was until John told me. It was easy enough to dig up his past after that and I was able to slip a few more names to Sherlock a little later. Told him some of his leads had paid off. 

I am willing to tell you right now that I have never been more afraid in my life than I was at that time. I had no idea if my brother was safe, or even alive, and then because of my own foolish actions I let the most important person in his life fall into danger’s hands again. My actions were jaded, and I was so afraid that the next time I saw Sherlock it would be as he was closing the door for the last time.” Mycroft knocked his drink back and went to refill his glass, but was stopped by Greg none too gently grabbing his wrist.

“Do you even care that John was taken, or just that Sherlock’s closest person was taken? Because I gotta tell ya, man; you’re not really sounding guilty about John. You’re sounding guilty about Sherlock.” Greg’s eyes narrowed as he stared him down. 

“Of course I care that..” Mycroft snapped, pulling his wrist from Greg’s grip and pouring himself another generous shot. He took a swallow and his eyes widened. “Oh..” He breathed the word, realization smacking him upside the head. 

“And he gets it. ‘Oh’ is right. Mycroft, you have got to realize that John is his own person. He is more than his relationship with your brother. And you don’t have to worry so much about that. He does love you, you know. Who did he call, panicking and scared, when John was in trouble? He didn't call me. He didn't call Mrs. Hudson. He called YOU. He trusts you, and he's a real shit about showing it, but he loves you just as much as you love him." Greg softened and slung an arm around Mycroft’s neck, hugging him closely for a moment before taking their glasses and setting them on the table. He took Mycroft’s hand in a gentle grip and walked him back to the bedroom. Mycroft’s eyes slid closed against the tenderness written on Greg’s face. He felt his clothing being gently slid from his body until only a pair of black boxer briefs remained. He opened his eyes to find Greg watching him, a small smile playing across his lips. 

“Lay down, Mycroft. We’re going to sleep.” Greg spoke softly, almost a whisper. There was a spell wrapped around them, a magic bubble of love and affection and respect, and neither wanted to be the one to burst it open. Mycroft sat on the edge of the bed, watching as Greg removed his own clothes, a pair of plain maroon boxers clinging to his hips. As he climbed into bed, Mycroft lay back and pulled the covers over them both. Greg watched him, laying there on his back and staring at the ceiling, for a moment longer than necessary. Taking in the lines around his eyes, the heaviness that always surrounded him. He moved closer, nudging Mycroft onto his side before sliding his arms around him, one hand planted squarely on his chest.

“Gregory...Greg. Why?” Mycroft whispered into the pillow, Greg straining to hear him.

“Because life is a picture made up of dots. Today was a dark dot, but tomorrow? Tomorrow is going to be a brighter one. Just get some sleep, and you’ll see it in the morning. Besides, I make killer french toast and we won’t get to breakfast if we don’t sleep now.” Greg placed a tender kiss to the back of Mycroft’s neck and settled in. 

An hour and a half later, and Greg was still wrapped around him like a sleepy octopus as Mycroft tried to let the burden of guilt slide from his shoulders. It was heavy, settled with time and daily additions and he had no hope of removing it on his own. But maybe, just maybe, the love and care from the man beside him could give him the extra strength he needed. With that thought on his mind, Mycroft fell into a fitful sleep. His nightmares still came, but they were just a little bit brighter. A little less invasive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that these last couple chapters are coming further apart than they have been. I had started out trying for a chapter a day or so, but that's a hard pace to keep up with the holidays! I work retail, so I've been busy at work! 
> 
> There are maybe 2 chapters or so left, unless the end of the story changes itself on me. So we're almost there!


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, look at that, an update! Life sunk its claws in, and I guess this story fell by the wayside a bit. But there's only one more chapter after this! 
> 
> Not sure how I feel about this story being finished, though. It's the second longest thing I've ever written, but might end up being the longest. Depends on how big the last chapter ends up being. I've spent so much time plotting and planning and bouncing ideas off of my darling janto321, it feels so WEIRD to be at the end of it, haha.
> 
> Enjoy!

John’s phone woke him at precisely 7am. His groan turned into a sigh when he saw who was calling. 

“Mycroft… C’mon. I’m the one who sleeps. Call your brother.” John curled onto his side, burying as much of his face in the pillow as he could without muffling his voice.   
“We both know that you’re the only one who would have picked up the phone. Or even checked the voicemail later. I have some business to discuss with you and Sherlock. A favor, to be honest. The car will be around in an hour to collect you.” The line went dead and John buried his face down into the pillow and allotted himself one dramatic Sherlockian sigh and flail before getting out of bed and heading downstairs. Sherlock was in his thinking pose on the couch, but startled and looked up with a glare when John smacked him lightly on the hip. 

“Your brother is kidnapping us in an hour, so I’m going for a shower. I want you dressed by the time I get out.” John turned and made his way to the bathroom. As he climbed into the tub for a quick shower, he contemplated life with his flatmate. Not just that, not anymore. Boyfriend felt too juvenile, while lover and significant other only made him roll his eyes. There wasn’t a proper term for what they were, so he just left it at them being together. No labels needed. He turned off the water, drying and dressing quickly in case Sherlock needed the bathroom before they left. As soon as he opened the door, however, he was met with a perfectly clothed Sherlock.  
“I am dressed. Since I did what you asked, I’m allowed to treat Mycroft however I wish.” Sherlock held his hands out in a lazy ‘ta-daaa!’ gesture before leaning down and pressing a chaste kiss to John’s lips before swirling away in his coat and sweeping out the front door. 

“Just don’t go overboard!” John called after him with another roll of his eyes. He stopped at the door long enough to pull on his shoes before running down the stairs to catch up with his flatmate. The promised car was waiting for them, an irritated and petulant Sherlock waiting outside of it. John brushed past him and got in the car first, grabbing Sherlock by one thin wrist and yanking him in after. “C’mon. And stop pouting!” 

\-----

“D’you think they’ll show?” Greg nodded a thanks at the waitress who had refreshed his coffee before looking across the table at Mycroft. They were in some restaurant or another, with a fancy french name he could barely pronounce.

“I feel safe in saying that, this time, John will come. I said I had a favor to ask of him, and after keeping the details of his torture from Sherlock for so long, I believe he’ll grant me that favor. Whether or not he has my brother in tow is yet to be seen.” Mycroft sipped at his tea and raised an eyebrow as another member of the wait staff approached. John and Sherlock trailed behind him. 

“Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson for you, sir.” The waiter bowed slightly and departed after the two men were seated. 

“Sherlock. John.” Mycroft nodded at them while Greg raised his cup and took a drink.

“So, uh. How’re you guys doing?” Greg sat his cup down and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.

“Other than getting woken up early and having to drag his petulant ass around, I’m good.” John smiled good naturedly and tilted his head towards Sherlock.

“Come now. Since entering into a romantic relationship, I have made far more concessions towards keeping you happy, John.” Sherlock glared and fiddled with a fork on the table while John chuckled. 

“I will admit that, yes. I only had to tell you to get dressed once this morning. THAT is a first. Anyway. You said you had a favor to ask us, Mycroft. What is it?” John’s smile faded as he spoke to the elder Holmes. 

“Enough pleasantries, yes. The business, favor rather, that I wished to discuss with you is rather personal and silly, I’m afraid. I have recently acquired a new property from a colleague of mine. We had a bet, and he lost. However, I have not had the opportunity to inspect the place myself. This is where I require your assistance. After…” Mycroft spoke, his eyes flickering back and forth between John and Sherlock for a second before Greg laughed and cut him off.

“You can’t say anything nice, can you? What he’s TRYING to say is that he won this property, hasn’t gone to check it out yet, and wants you two to do it. Nice place, I’ve seen the pictures. We talked about it, and figured you two could use a bit of a break from London after these last few days. So, what do you say?” Greg smiled easily at the two, nudging a scowling Mycroft under the table. 

“I have no problems saying ‘nice’ things, Gregory. I just usually find them pointless. It is much better to simply get to the point and carry on.” Mycroft took another drink of his tea as John’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. 

“Oh. Well. I, uh, I guess we could? We haven’t taken any cases since I showed Sherlock the.. the videos. And it might not hurt to get away. Where is the place anyway?” John glanced at Sherlock, who was suddenly fascinated by his napkin. 

“Ireland. Some little coastal place. Here.” Mycroft leaned down and picked up a small briefcase sat next to his chair. Pulling out a manila envelope, he spread some papers in front of John. 

“Oh. Oh wow. That’s rather nice. And this guy gave it up in a bet?” John asked incredulously. 

“It was a rather high-stakes bet, yes.” Mycroft cleared his throat politely. “So. I can arrange transportation for this afternoon, if you’d wish to go pack.” 

Several hours later, John and Sherlock were on a small but lavish plane. When they landed at the airport, a man was waiting for them as soon as they stepped onto solid ground. 

“Mr. Holmes. Mr. Watson. If you’ll follow me. Mr. Holmes the elder has arranged for a helicopter to deliver you directly at your destination.” A gentle Irish brogue accompanied a small bow as the man took both of their bags and lead them towards a nearby helipad. They settled in and watched as the tarmac fell away and gradually evolved into less populated countryside. John couldn’t help but tug at the sleeve of Sherlock’s coat and point at the landscape. 

Sherlock was content to watch the excitement on John’s face. The videos had disturbed him, to say the least. Everytime he saw John, he could only see how his features twisted and contorted in pain and fear. How he screamed. How he bled. Mycroft knew it too. That knowledge, and Greg’s grounding presence, was why they were now headed to this property to begin with. The Holmes, for all their pride and history, weren’t a particularly close knit family. Sherlock and Mycroft’s early relationship was an odd turn of events, but the adults knew it’d fade with time. They had been right, but not entirely. Both brothers had always wanted to rekindle their relationship, and this was a very big first step in that direction. Of course, neither could swallow that damnable pride long enough to acknowledge that. But their counterparts, John and Greg, they were the ones who could give heartfelt thanks. They could express what Sherlock and Mycroft were trained to keep hidden. 

So Sherlock took it all in now. All the happiness on John’s face. He let it push the other images out of his head, fill the empty slate with the sunshine beaming from him.   
“Sherlock! I think we’re here. Look!” John was gesturing excitedly at a large manor. They landed on another helipad a short distance from the building.

\-----

Mycroft stood idly by his desk, playing with the lamp. Greg came up behind him and wrapped his arms around his waist. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it? See what being nice and letting Sherlock do his own thing gets you?” Greg chuckled and squeezed lightly as Mycroft stiffened in his arms. 

“What has it gotten me, exactly? Sherlock didn’t say a word to me during breakfast. Not even to insult me.” Mycroft eased a little into Greg’s arms. 

“That’s just it. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t mock you, didn’t question you, didn’t make a damn peep. Did you even see the look on his face the whole time? He knows exactly what you’re doing here. That this is a favor for them, not you. You guys don’t say it out loud, you don’t voice it, and you barely show it. But I see the way you act around each other. For all the ice, it’s still pretty toasty in the room, hm? You’re a good man, Mycroft. A good brother. Yeah, I know. ‘All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage.’

But you’re wrong. Look at what caring has done for us. Caring brought down Moriarty. Caring brought down Sheehan. Caring kept Sherlock alive and safe for his entire life. And now, caring has brought us together. Aren’t those advantages? Do you think I’m going to break your heart, Mycroft?” Greg’s voice, low and raspy, dripped like honey. He kissed and nibbled on Mycroft’s neck; teeth nipping, tongue and lips soothing the sting. He splayed one hand across Mycroft’s chest until his wrist was taken in a shaky hold. Mycroft slowly slid his hand down. But as Mycroft's grip loosened at his soft belly, Greg's hand didn't hesitate to keep going. He hummed his approval and continued his ministrations until Mycroft turned around. He kissed Greg softly, lips and tongues dancing until he was pushed back against the edge of the desk. 

“Gregory…” Mycroft leaned back on his elbows and spread his legs slowly. Greg wore a wolf’s grin and stepped between Mycroft’s thighs, his hands seeking his hips. Both men moaned as their erections brushed against each other. Sensation danced and sizzled, even with the layers of material between them. Greg went to work on Mycroft’s belt before tugging his pants open and, with a little help, got them and his underwear off. He stepped in close again, taking Mycroft’s erection in one hand while the other snaked around his hip and held tightly. Stroking him slowly, Greg held him down when Mycroft tried to buck up into his grip. 

“No you don’t. I think you need a bit of a reminder just how good things can get when you open yourself up to the opportunity.” He tilted his head down and kissed Mycroft, nipping and tugging on his lower lip while he continued to stroke the velvet steel of his arousal. 

“What I need, Gregory, is for you to up the ante.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow and smirked before lowering himself onto his back and reaching behind his head across the desk. He slid a drawer open and fished around for a second before giving a small ‘aha!’ of triumph and pulling himself up again. He pressed a small bottle of lube and a condom into Greg’s hands. 

“Mycroft.” Greg looked at the contents before kissing him again. Mycroft melted against his lips, arching his back and pulling the Detective Inspector flush against him before working on his own belt and pants. Before Greg knew it, his pants were pooled at his ankles and his shirt was hanging open. He shrugged it off his shoulders and stepped away, kicking all of his discarded clothes to the side before reaching for Mycroft’s shirt. His hands were pushed away, and he pulled back. Mycroft was looking to the side, and Greg leaned back in to kiss him gently. 

“I don’t have as physical of a career as you do.” Mycroft murmured softly. 

“You’re beautiful.” Greg kissed him again before leaning down and unbuttoning the top button, planting a kiss on the newly revealed skin. He continued this, undoing a button and leaving a kiss in its place, until the shirt was hanging open. Mycroft stiffened at being so openly exposed, but the look of sheer lust on Greg’s face eased his worry and he leaned up into him again. Greg spread Mycroft’s thighs and clicked open the bottle of lube before slicking his fingers. Mycroft pulled his knees up slightly and canted his hips, gasping lightly as Greg’s fingers circled his entrance. With a skilled touch, he slowly pushed a finger inside and curled it. Mycroft jumped and moaned, clenching his muscles over Greg’s finger as he started to pump slowly in and out. He kept his hand on Mycroft’s cock, stroking in time with his finger as he slipped a second digit inside. Beautiful moans and breathy sighs tumbled from Mycroft as he scissored his fingers. 

Greg was quickly becoming addicted to watching the man fall apart and come undone at his hands. The sounds alone could keep him well stocked with fantasies for weeks to come. He added a third digit as Mycroft held onto his shoulder. 

“Now. Enough. I’m ready. Gregory.” Mycroft’s breathy moans went straight to Greg’s cock and he was only too happy to comply. Tearing open the condom wrapper, he sheathed himself before adding more lube and lining himself up. He took a moment to appreciate the sight of Mycroft, naked and waiting, before pushing inside. Mycroft’s head tipped back and he lowered himself onto his elbows behind him.

“Fuck, Mycroft. Feels so good.” Greg gasped, grabbing onto his hips and thrusting in earnest. Mycroft brought his knees up along Greg’s sides.   
“Gregory. Gregory. Yes.” Mycroft panted, each thrust punctuated with a moan. He slid his arms forward, dropping onto his back as Greg leaned forward and peppered his neck and chest with kisses and licking at the sheen of sweat growing on his skin. 

“See what happens when you learn to give up a little control? Good things happen, Mycroft. Fucking great things happen. C’mon. Give it up to me. Want to watch you lose it. Want to watch you fall apart beneath me.” Greg growled and snaked a hand behind Mycroft’s neck, lifting his head and crushing their lips together in a bruising kiss.

“Only you. I could only ever give up control to you, Gregory. Oh, god.” Mycroft stiffened, tilting his head back as Greg stood up again and grasped his cock. Greg was stroking him to the point of Mycroft’s hips bucking back and forth between his hand and cock. 

“Only I could appreciate you giving up any of your control. God, look at yourself. So fucking beautiful. So beautiful.” Greg’s free hand was roaming all over Mycroft’s body, worshiping any skin it found. He splayed his fingers over Mycroft’s hip, at the base of his cock, before running it up his side and over his ribs, dragging his nails lightly. 

Mycroft gave himself over to sensation. The slight pain from Greg’s nails mixed with the delicious pressure of his hand on his cock and being filled so gloriously soon had his hips stuttering in a graceless rhythm. 

“That’s it. Come for me, Mycroft. Can you do that for me? Want you to watch you. Show me what you’ve got.” Greg bit his lower lip at the sight before him. Beautiful pale skin shining in the light, chest heaving, head thrown back in pleasure. Mycroft was a sight to behold as he arched his back and came, spilling warm and wet over Greg’s hand with a deep guttural moan. 

Greg braced his clean hand on the table and leaned forward, snapping his hips forward hard and fast as he followed Mycroft over the edge. He kept pumping through his orgasm, coming down to see that Mycroft had sat up and was licking his own come from Greg’s hand. 

“Fuck. You’re gonna be the death of me.” Greg chuckled and gasped for breath, burying his head in the juncture between Mycroft’s neck and shoulder. He planted several light, loving kisses over the pale flesh before pulling out slowly. After stripping the condom off and tossing it onto the floor beside him, he rounded on Mycroft and cupped his jaw, kissing him deeply. His lips and mouth were flavored with the earthy, musky taste of his release. 

“At least you’ll go out smiling.” Mycroft smirked as Greg moved his kisses down over his jaw, back to his neck and shoulder. 

“It’s all I could ever ask for.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, darlings. The final chapter! This took much longer to write than I'd have liked. But... I'm torn over this story ending. It's the longest thing I've ever written, I've spent the most time on it, put the most effort into it. I'm fairly new to writing, so this has been a huge learning exercise as well. 
> 
> Thank you so very much to everyone who has commented, given kudos, subscribed, bookmarked, read, and otherwise enjoyed this story. 
> 
> I'd also like to give an extra special thank you to janto321. I can honestly say that this story would have only reached a fraction of its potential without her input, guidance, and being my amazing muse.

When Sherlock stepped inside the large foyer, John was craning his neck and gawking all around. 

“John, your head is going to fall right off your neck. It’s just a house.” Despite his words, he was rather taken with the place as well. 

“It’s just a really fucking nice house, Sherlock. You know the neighborhood I grew up in. We didn’t have houses like this. It’s just nice to stay in a place like this and not have it be because Mycroft kidnapped us to his place. I mean, don’t get me wrong, under any other circumstances your brother’s house would be a beautiful place. But when it’s inhabited by him and he’s kidnapped us there, some of the novelty is lost.” John chuckled and climbed the stairs in search of the bedrooms. Sherlock dropped his bag where he stood and wandered around. He had to hand it to Mycroft, this wasn’t as heavy handed as some of his manipulations. He didn’t know fully what, or why, yet, but he knew his brother had some sort of plan here. A case, maybe? He’d have to wait it out. He climbed the stairs, following the soft sounds of John’s footsteps. 

“Have you chosen this bedroom?” John startled at Sherlock’s voice directly behind him. Turning around with a smile, he looked around the room. 

“I think so, yeah. What about you?” John walked over to the window and looked out across the yard. 

“I haven’t checked the rooms out yet. I’ll most likely take the one next door.” Sherlock joined John at the window, stopping half of a step behind him. “Are you okay, John? You seem happy right now, but given the events of the last--”

“I’m fine. Really. It happened two years ago. Yeah, it was a little hard to dive right back into it like that, but I’m fine. You handled it worse than I did, to be honest.” John turned his head to look at Sherlock, leaning a shoulder against the window.

“I did no such thing.” 

“Sherlock, you threw up.” John smiled again and reached out, capturing the cuff of Sherlock’s coat between his fingers and stepping towards him. 

“Yes. Well. You cried.” Sherlock dropped his gaze to the floor as John sighed. 

“I didn’t mean anything. I was just saying that you care about me and watching those videos got to you. I lived it, so I knew what to expect. You didn’t. That’s all.” John leaned up and kissed Sherlock. A light pressure of lips and then he was pulling away. “C’mon. I’m hungry. Let’s go see if there’s anything in the kitchen.” Sherlock followed quietly, watching as John investigated the fridge, pantry, and cupboards. Everything was, of course, fully stocked. 

“What could I make that you’d be most likely to eat?” John spoke over his shoulder as he looked around inside the fridge. Sherlock leaned around him and gave a quick glance. 

“Chicken.” Sherlock leaned passed John and pulled a package of thighs out of the fridge. John nodded and grabbed a bowl. Tossing the chicken in with some white wine vinegar, a handful of thyme, and some salt and pepper, he let the chicken sit while he started chopping some carrots and potatoes into chunks. 

“And you better eat, Sherlock. Seriously. I’m prepared to go into full on nag mode if you don’t.” John brandished the knife at him as he spoke and grinned. When the oven beeped at temperature, he tossed everything into a baking dish and into the oven. 

“I’m actually hungry for once, so I shall eat.” Almost an hour later, Sherlock found himself being ushered into the dining room and pushed into a chair. John carried two plates on one arm, keeping the other free to herd Sherlock. Setting them down, he sat down adjacent to him at the small table. They ate in a comfortable silence, John watching Sherlock from under his lashes. Sherlock caught on and started stealing pieces of carrot from John’s plate. 

“Hey! You have your own!” John brandished his fork with a grin.

“Yes, but yours taste better. What are you going to do about it? Let me starve?” Sherlock pulled a face, holding a piece of carrot between his lips. John grabbed a fistful of shirt, hauling him in at the same time as he lunged forward, kissing Sherlock and biting the carrot in half. He leaned back, chewing triumphantly as he waggled his eyebrows. 

“I don’t know about you, but I was raised to share.” John went back to eating as Sherlock glanced at their plates. He pulled John’s towards him, dumping the rest of his own food onto the place and centering it between them. 

“I can share too.” Sherlock spoke quietly, a small smile tugging at his lips. John beamed at him and scooted his chair closer. They finished eating in silence, their shoulders continually bumping and touching.

It wasn’t until that night, after the dishes had been put away and they’d shared a glass or two of wine before taking a walk around the property, that things got a little awkward and unsure. John had yawned and announced he was going to bed. Sherlock had followed as he climbed the stairs, and they stood between their doors. 

“Well. Ah. I guess I’m gonna go to bed now. We can figure out something to do tomorrow, if you want. Or just hang around the house more. Whatever you want to do.” John ran a hand over the back of his neck and shuffled his weight from one foot to the other. 

“Yes. You should get some rest. We can talk about tomorrow in the morning.” Sherlock nodded and tilted his head down to kiss John goodnight. He turned and got his door halfway open before a hand caught his wrist. 

“Wait. Sherlock. Stay with me tonight? I know we haven’t shared a bed yet. But.. I want you with me. Nothing needs to happen. Just stay with me.” John spoke to their point of connection, Sherlock’s fingers slowly curling and uncurling in his grip. 

“Yeah. Yes. I’d like that. Let me just change into pajamas. I’ll be over to your room shortly.” Sherlock kissed him on the forehead before breaking free and slipping into his room. John went into his own room and quickly changed into his pajamas. Worn flannel bottoms and a plain cotton t-shirt. He sat on the edge of the bed and worried his bottom lip. Was he pushing Sherlock? He said he’d like to stay, but he was also known to do things against his will if he thought it’d make John happy. He was about to go tell Sherlock he’d made a mistake, rescind his offer, when there was a knock on the door and he came in. There was a rare smile on his face and hope in his eyes. Any thoughts John had of mistakes flew from his mind. 

Sherlock approached him slowly, stopping just short of John’s legs. A few beats of silence, and John shifted, climbing under the covers and leaving space next to him. Sherlock lay down beside him without a word, just scooting in close, sliding one arm under the side of John’s neck and resting the other on his side. John tangled their legs together, their faces close enough to share the same air.

“I guess it was only a matter of time before we ended up here.” John tucked a hand under his head, the other curled between them, resting on Sherlock’s chest. 

“It’s really more of a beginning, don’t you think?” He slid his hand up to cover John’s, leaning forward and kissing him deep and slow. John sighed against his lips and pushed himself closer. Sherlock’s lips parted, John taking the invitation and sliding his tongue languorously against his partner’s. Sherlock fisted the hem of John’s shirt, his knuckles brushing against warm skin. John rolled him onto his back, half laying on top of him as his kisses traveled from lips to jaw to neck. 

“John.. John, we don’t have to… You said nothing needed too.. I don’t want to push you…” Sherlock mumbled into the pillow, his head thrown to the side as John continued to kiss and lick at his neck and collarbone. 

“Shh.. If either of us reach a point where we want to stop, we’ll stop things. For now, just let go. I’ve got you.” John nipped at delicate skin, throwing his arm across a narrow chest. The words struck Sherlock, stilling him. John pulled back to look at him. “What’s wrong? Do you want to stop?” 

“I never thought I’d be here, never thought this would be something I’d want. Now here I am, no where else I’d rather be. I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you. The way I need you.” Sherlock pulled John closer, clinging as tightly as possible.

“It’s a little scary, isn’t it?” John chuckled and kissed Sherlock again. He swung a leg over Sherlock’s hips, hovering over him and smiling down into uncertain eyes. 

“Not scary. Just… new. Different.” His hands fell to John’s hips, holding them lightly as he leaned up for another kiss.

“Different good or different bad?” John stiffened a bit, only relaxing when Sherlock huffed and pulled him flush against his chest, kissing him again. 

“Different good, John. I’m inexperienced with relationships, but that doesn’t mean I’m about to run from this. I’ll admit to wanting to run a few times, but I don’t want to leave. Sometimes I just get overwhelmed and need breathing room. I hope you understand that.” 

“Just how inexperienced are we talking? Just with relationships, or…?” John furrowed his brow and tried to move off of Sherlock, but was held in place. 

“Everything. I’ve kissed people before, and have gone on dates. But it’s all been in disguise for cases. I’ve never been with anyone as me. That doesn’t mean I need special care, or that we have to do anything in a certain way. It’s not because I’ve been ‘saving myself’ or whatever. I just never met anyone before you who interested me in this way. I wasn’t quite opposed to the idea, but I was content to think it’d never happen. I don’t have the largest social circle.” Sherlock shrugged, running a hand slowly up and down John’s side. 

“So… You’re a virgin.” John leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder, taking everything in. He’d suspected that was the case, but never really gave it much thought. Until this week, he’d never thought Sherlock would be interested in him other than as a friend. 

“Yes, that’s what I just said. Keep up, John. If you’re interested in changing that, I have a bottle of lubricant in my suitcase. Front pocket, in a plastic bag.” Sherlock patted his hip to make him move and retrieve it. John rolled his eyes and leaned over to fumble around with the bag. When he sat back upright, he clutched the bottle and looked down at it. 

“I’m not sure how you wanted to do this, Sherlock. We can do whatever you want next. But for this first time, I want you inside me. After everything that’s happened, I need this. I need to feel you.” John still straddled Sherlock’s hips, his hands clenched together and resting on his flat ivory belly. Sherlock scooted back, pulling himself away from John so that he could sit up straight. 

“John. Whatever you need, I want to give it to you. Say the word, and it’s yours.” He ran his hands gently up and down John’s arms. 

“You. I just need you, Sherlock.” 

“You have me. Heart, body, and soul.”

John nodded and, with a small smile that radiated warmth, pulled his shirt off. Sherlock watched, eyes wide and scanning over his naked torso, as John tossed the shirt to the side. He ran a hand unconsciously over his scars. Sherlock pulled his arm away, leaning forward to kiss each scar and feeling each ridge against his lips. His hands smoothed over his sides and curled up towards John’s shoulder blades.

“These are as much a part of you as anything else, John. Never be ashamed of them. Not anymore.” Sherlock murmured lovingly against his skin, not even sure if he was being heard. He planted a kiss over John’s heart, hearing the man’s breath hitch.

“Sherlock. Sherlock, please.” John breathed and pulled Sherlock up, kissing him deeply and reaching to pull his shirt off. He ran his hands reverently from Sherlock’s abdomen up his chest. “So beautiful, Sherlock. I’m happy you didn’t do anything more than kissing for a case. I want to show you how special this can be.” 

“I’d imagine sex feels mostly like masturbation, just with a bit more moisture.” Sherlock tossed his shirt off the side of the bed and reached for John’s pants. 

“I guess you could describe it that way. But it’s different with someone you care about. There’s an emotional aspect to it too, Sherlock. And as much as you like to say emotions aren’t your thing, you’re pretty emotional with me. Just wait. You’ll see.” John let Sherlock tug his pants down over his hips, stepping out of them before settling on the bed between Sherlock’s knees. He tapped on his hips until Sherlock raised them, John sliding his bottoms off. He settled back down again, running his hands up and down Sherlock’s thighs until he nodded his permission and John slowly kissed his way from Sherlock’s knee, up a milky thigh, until he was mouthing along his shaft through his underpants. 

“John.” Sherlock breathed his name, wiggling at the contact. John smiled and continued to nibble and mouth along the hardening line of his erection. Sherlock grunted and shoved at his underpants, John taking pity and helping to slide them off before wrapping his fingers around his cock and licking a stripe up the underside. A shudder and moan from Sherlock told him he was doing things correctly. Licking circles around the head, John slowly stroked him with his hand. The sounds falling from Sherlock’s lips were music. 

“Bit different from masturbation, hm?” John murmured, leaning down to nibble at the delicate skin around the base of his cock. A small whimper from above and a trembling hand gripped his shoulder.

“John. John… Oh, god. I’ve never… Nothing’s ever…” Sherlock, lost for words, could only writhe helplessly in John’s grip. 

“Never felt anything like this before. I told you it’s different with someone you love. And this is just the tip of the iceberg.” John grinned and slid his lips over Sherlock’s cock, taking as much of his length as he could and bobbing his head slowly. A sharp gasp and long, low moan from Sherlock and John sped up a bit, adding some suction and laving his tongue along the underside. 

“Stop, John. Stop. If you keep going, we’ll be done before we start.” Sherlock pushed at John’s shoulder until he slid off of him. Scooting forward, he straddled Sherlock’s hips again. 

“Do you have any condoms? Or just the lube?” John ran his hands along Sherlock’s chest and stomach.

“Does it matter? We’re both clean. Mycroft always supplied me with what I needed, because if he couldn’t stop me from using he could at least make sure I was using a clean needle each time. Not to mention making sure nothing was cut with something dangerous.” He shrugged, and John nodded. 

“Ok. Good. Because I don’t think I can stop touching you right now.” He picked up the lube, slicking the fingers of one hand. Planting his clean hand on Sherlock’s stomach, John reached behind him and slid his fingers against his own entrance. Arching his back into the touch, he couldn’t help but moan. It’d been awhile since he’d bottomed, or even touched himself there, and things were deliciously sensitive. Sherlock watched with awe as John’s muscles twitched and shifted under his skin. His eyes darted back and forth from John’s face to his shoulder, arm, abs, thighs. Sherlock reached forward and wrapped tentative fingers around John’s cock, eliciting an even louder moan, his hips bucking forward of their own accord. “Oh, god.. Sherlock. A little tighter. There. Just like that. Oh, fuck.” After a few minutes of Sherlock slowly stroking, John pulled away and grabbed the lube again. He added more to his hand before tossing the bottle and reaching for Sherlock’s cock. A few pumps of his wrist, and he moved over Sherlock, lining him up. They both moaned loudly as the blunt tip of Sherlock’s cock finally pushed passed the ring of muscle and John slid home. He sat still for a few moments, adjusting and taking the time to wipe his hand clean on the sheet. 

“John. Oh, god. You’re so warm. So warm. And.. tight. Feels so good. Like your hand, but more.” Sherlock babbled until John leaned forward and kissed him. Pressed together chest to belly, John rolled his hips experimentally until he found a perfect rhythm and speed. Not too fast, not too slow, just perfect circles as he ground his hips against Sherlock’s. Neither wanted things to end too quickly. 

Sherlock grabbed onto John’s hips as he sat up again. One of his hands slid up over John’s stomach, onto his chest. His fingers splayed over his heart as John grabbed his hand, curling their fingers together. 

“Fuck, fuck, Sherlock. I’ve waited so long for this. Thank you, thank you. Oh fuck.” John pressed his free hand over Sherlock’s on his hip, sliding over his cock slowly. Sherlock bucked up against him and moaned his name. 

“John. Oh, John. I’m not… Not going to last much longer…” His fingertips dug into John’s hip, trying to hold onto anything solid. 

“Neither am I. It’s been so long. Fuck, Sherlock, keep fucking me. Don’t stop, I’m almost there. Almost there.” John threw his head back as Sherlock reached out and grabbed his cock again, stroking it in time with his thrusts. John bucked his hips forward, fucking himself back and forth between cock and hand. Sherlock’s name on his lips, he moaned and came in thick ribbons, painting the man’s chest and belly. Sherlock rolled John onto his back as he collapsed forward, dropping his forehead to John’s shoulder and thrusting a few more times before falling into oblivion. 

A few minutes later, after their breathing returned to normal and their brains had started working again, John freed himself from the tangle of limbs and lips. He ran to the bathroom long enough to grab a couple damp washcloths. When they were both clean, they tossed the towels to the side and John climbed back into bed. Sherlock smiled when John lay his head on his chest, pulling the covers up over them and wrapping his arms around him. 

“I see what you mean about being with someone you care about. I didn’t expect it to be like that.” Sherlock planted kisses in John’s hair, leaning his head back when he turned to look at him.

“I told you it was good. But nooo, you didn’t listen to me.” John laughed and kissed the pale chest beneath him. 

“I admit my mistake. This time.” Sherlock yawned and squeezed John closer against him as they both fell asleep.

\-----

When Sherlock woke, it was to a warm and empty bed. He rolled over onto John’s side of the bed when he heard the bathroom door shut. Inhaling deeply, he smiled at the scent of John and sweat. His bladder urged him out of bed a few minutes later, and he walked into the bathroom without knocking. John stood in front of the mirror, fingertips running lightly over his scars. 

“These aren’t going away, Sherlock. I know they bother you. Hell, they still bother me, and I’ve had two years to adjust to them.” He skewed his mouth in a humorless smirk and reached for his shirt. Sherlock stopped him, pulling John against him. 

“I don’t expect them to. Yes, they bothered me at first. I’ve had significantly less than two years to accept that you have my name scarred into your body, but I’m getting there. I’m not going to lie and say they don’t alarm me. They do. It’s weird to see my name permanently on you. They don’t turn me away, though. If anything, I want to be closer to you than ever. I left once, and this happened. I don’t want to leave you again, John.” Sherlock tilted his head down, John leaning up to kiss him. It lacked any heat. This kiss was the promise of a future they both desperately wanted together. 

“Thank you, Sherlock. For last night, and now, and everything. Just.. Thank you.” John leaned into him, hugging him tightly. 

“I hate to ruin the moment, but you’re pressing against my bladder and I really have to pee. Why don’t you go start some breakfast, and I’ll be down in a minute?” Sherlock kissed John again and sent him out of the bathroom with a pat on the ass. John laughed and headed out of their room. 

John’s phone rang as he was pulling a carton of eggs from the fridge. He glanced at the caller ID, fearing Mycroft but smiling when it was Lestrade instead. 

“Greg! Hello.” He tucked the phone onto his shoulder, freeing both hands to get a pan out and turn the stove on. 

“Mornin’, John. Figured I’d call before the courier had a chance to get there. Oh, by the way, expect a courier at some point today.” Lestrade yawned through the last couple words. 

“A courier? What for?” John cracked a few eggs into the pan as a knob of butter sizzled away.

“Well. Mycroft lied to you yesterday. I know, I know, big surprise. Surprise also, that I lied to you. I didn’t have all the details when you guys left, but I got them afterward. I’ll cut to the chase, because I have to get back to work soon. Our men are idiots, and can’t do anything nice straight out. It’s all red tape and backhanded compliments with them. Anyway, Mycroft didn’t quite win the house in a bet. Unless you count “This is the price you’re asking for the house, bet I can’t talk you down a few thousand pounds” as a bet. He bought the place specifically for you guys. I guess they’d gone out to that part of Ireland when they were younger, and Mycroft remembered Sherlock enjoying himself. Anyway, the courier will be by with some papers you guys need to sign.” John could almost hear the eyeroll in Lestrade’s voice as he spoke. 

“He WHAT? He bought us a fucking house? What? Why?” John leaned against the counter and looked up at Sherlock as he came into the kitchen and rescued the eggs from burning. 

“Because you guys have dealt with some shit lately? And then you finally worked through it and got together? Nice timing, actually. I won the pool down at the yard. A neat little profit too, 400 quid!” 

“You guys had a pool going on if Sherlock and I would get together?” John’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. Sherlock merely raised a questioning eyebrow and slid the eggs onto a plate. He looked a little lost for a second, until John pointed at a loaf of bread and gestured at the toaster.

“When, not if. There was talk about starting a second pool after this. About how long you two will last. But I pointed out that no one would ever collect, because if you hadn’t killed Sherlock by now, you never would.” Greg chuckled and John pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, but still. Mycroft bought us a fucking house. We’ve been together for less than a week, and we already own a house together.” John smirked at the look of dumbfounded surprise on Sherlock’s face. 

“Yeah well, our men are geniuses and pretty to boot. But never let it go unsaid that they’re the two biggest idiots I know despite that. They don’t do anything by halves. I suggested a nice fruit basket, by the way. Anyway, I get back to work. I’ll catch you guys later. Bye!” The line clicked off, John setting his phone on the table. 

“Well. I guess we own a house, Sherlock. Or, we will when the courier with the papers gets here at some point today.” John shook his head, buttered the toast that had popped out of the toaster and sat down. Sherlock looked around as if seeing the house for the first time. 

“The construction is a very modern design. Little to no signs of age. He didn’t just buy the place, he had it built specifically for us. I knew something seemed off about this whole thing.” He finally sat down and absentmindedly chewed on a piece of toast. 

“Really? Well, he has good taste, have to give him that. It’s still a really big thing, though. What are we gonna do? Greg said he meant it honestly as a present for us. Kind of a ‘sorry you got kidnapped and tortured and my brother faked his death for two years, have a house. Condolences’ thing.” John rubbed his foot against Sherlock’s under the table, pointedly dropping an egg onto his plate. 

“I think we should accept it. I could see us living here. It’s a small town, no medical clinics for several miles. You could start a practice, and I could keep bees. It’d be a safe life for us.” Sherlock finally looked at him, leaning forward and catching his eye. 

“Safe yes, fulfilling no. Sherlock, nothing is going to happen to me again. Not like Sheehan. We have too much left to do in London. We won’t be able to do that forever, running around and chasing criminals. I like that life. I love it. I also love the life you described here. For later. When we’re old and fat and can’t chase the criminals anymore. We’ll retire out here. You can keep bees and give guest lectures at schools via the internet. I’ll be a country doctor with a small clinic and set broken arms and cure the common cold. And I’ll always have fresh honey for my tea. But until then, Sherlock, we have to go back. I can’t let you stop now. You’d never forgive yourself if you did. You’d never forgive me for letting you.” He reached forward and squeezed Sherlock’s hand, offering up a warm smile. 

“I just want to keep you safe. I look at your scars and all I see is what could have happened. What if Mycroft had been later in finding you, or Sheehan a little more ruthless? What if you hadn’t been so strong?” Sherlock clenched his free hand into a fist on the table top. “Why won’t you let me keep you safe, John?”

“Because it’s not the life either of us want right now. All of your hypothetical what-ifs are useless. They didn’t happen, and they won’t happen. There is no chance for them to happen. If it makes you feel any better, I promise to take you with me the next time I get kidnapped and tortured. You can get the brands this time, and we’ll be a matching set, okay?” John ducked his head, looking up at Sherlock. 

“But I’m so pale. The healed scars wouldn’t show up very well. They’d have to tattoo me. I can see it now. Row after row of ‘I believe in John Watson’s tea addiction’. Maybe with a nice little teacup right over my heart.” Sherlock smiled as the storm cloud dissipated from his mood.

“Or better yet, ‘I believe in Moira Anderson’s idiocy’!” John let loose a sharp bark of laughter as Sherlock tilted his head.

“Moira? Wait… Anderson’s name is Moira?” Sherlock’s eyes widened as he tried to hold in his own laughter. 

“Yep. Greg told me. Moira Gillian Anderson. I guess his parents wanted a daughter. Or had very low hopes for his self-esteem.” John made a surprised sound as Sherlock lost his composure, laughing so hard he shot a piece of egg onto John’s face. 

Yeah. Life with Sherlock was far from over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may expand this into a series. I'd like to explore Mycroft and Greg's relationship more, give more details about John's kidnapping and torture, and of course keep in touch with John and Sherlock! Who know. 
> 
> Note: Anderson's names come from joke tweets sent out by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffit, according to a very brief google search =P


End file.
